he
subject on which all my life's future depends. Is there no chord in your
heart that vibrates in harmony with mine? Are there no memories
associated with the oak trees of the wood, the mossy stone at the
fountain, the sacred rose of the grave, propitious to my early and
ever-growing love?"

He spoke with a depth of feeling of which I had never thought him
possessed. Sincerity and truth dignified every look and tone. Yes! there
were undying memories, now wakened in all their strength, of the
youthful champion of my injured rights, the sympathizing companion of my
darkest hours; the friend, who stood by me when other friends were
unknown. There was many a responsive chord that thrilled at his voice,
and there was another note, a sweet triumphant note never struck before.
The new-born consciousness of woman's power, the joy of being beloved,
the regal sense of newly acquired dominion swelled in my bosom and
flashed from my eye. But _the master-chord was silent_. I knew, I felt
even then, that there was a golden string, down in the very depths of my
heart, too deep for his hand to touch.

I felt grieved and glad. Grieved that I could not give a full response
to his generous offering,--glad that I had capacities of loving, he,
with all his excellences, could never fill. I tried to tell him what I
felt, to express friendship, gratitude, and esteem; but he would not
hear me,--he would not let me go on.

"No, no; say nothing now," said he impetuously. "I have been premature.
You do not know your own heart. You do love me,--you will love me. You
must not, you shall not deny me the privilege of hope. I will maintain
the vantage ground on which I stand,--first friend, first lover, and
even Ernest Linwood cannot drive me from it."

"Ernest Linwood!" I exclaimed, startled and indignant. "You know he can
never be any thing to me. You know my immeasurable obligations to his
mother. His name shall be sacred from levity."

"It is. He is the last person whom I would lightly name. He has
brilliant talents and a splendid position; but woe to the woman who
places her happiness in his keeping. He confides in no one,--so the
world describes him,--is jealous and suspicious even in
friendship;--what would he be in love?"

"I know not. I care not,--only for his mother's and Edith's sake. Again
I say, he is nothing to me. Richard, you trouble me very much by your
strange way of talking. You have no idea how you have made my head ache.
P