nd.

"Oh! George--George!" she whispers imploringly, as her eyes meet his;
and turning upon the couch of her chamber, where he hath lain her,
awakes to consciousness, and finds him watching over her with a lover's
solicitude. "I was not cold because I loved you less--oh no! It was to
propitiate my ambition--to be free of the bondage of this house--to
purge myself of the past--to better my future!" And she lays her pale,
nervous hand gently on his arm--then grasps his hand and presses it
fervently to her lips.

Though placed beyond the pale of society--though envied by one extreme
and shunned by the other--she finds George her only true friend. He
parts and smooths gently over her polished shoulders her dishevelled
hair; he watches over her with the tenderness of a brother; he quenches
and wipes away the blood oozing from her wounded breast; he kisses and
kisses her flushed cheek, and bathes her Ion-like brow. He forgives all.
His heart would speak if his tongue had words to represent it. He would
the past were buried--the thought of having wronged him forgotten. She
recognizes in his solicitude for her the sincerity of his heart. It
touches like sweet music the tenderest chords of her own; and like
gushing fountains her great black eyes fill with tears. She buries her
face in her hands, crying, "Never, never, George, (I swear it before the
God I have wronged, but whose forgiveness I still pray,) will I again
forget my obligation to you! I care not how high in station he who seeks
me maybe. Ambitious!--I was misled. His money lured me away, but he
betrayed me in the face of his promises. Henceforth I have nothing for
this deceptive world; I receive of it nothing but betrayal--"

"The world wants nothing more of either of us," interrupts George.

More wounded in her feelings than in her flesh, she sobs and wrings her
hands like one in despair.

"You have ambition. I am too poor to serve your ambition!"

That word, too "poor," is more than her already distracted brain can
bear up under. It brings back the terrible picture of their past
history; it goads and agonizes her very soul. She throws her arms
frantically about his neck; presses him to her bosom; kisses him with
the fervor of a child. Having pledged his forgiveness with a kiss, and
sealed it by calling in a witness too often profaned on such occasions,
George calms her feelings as best he can; then he smooths with a gentle
hand the folds of her uplifted dress,