d over my name that will for ever rest upon it. Knowing _that_, you
cannot, you will not wish to unite your noble, brilliant destiny with
mine. This hour will be remembered as a dream, a bright, but fleeting
dream."

"What do I care for the past?" he exclaimed, detaining me as I
endeavored to move on. "Talk not of a clouded name. Will not mine absorb
it? What shaft of malice can pierce you, with my arm as a defence, and
my bosom as a shield? Gabriella, it is you that I love, not the dead and
buried past. You are the representative of all present joy and hope. I
ask for nothing but your love,--your exclusive, boundless love,--a love
that will be ready to sacrifice every thing but innocence and integrity
for me,--that will cling to me in woe as in weal, in shame as in honor,
in death as in life. Such is the love I give; and such I ask in return.
Is it mine? Tell me not of opposing barriers; only tell me what your
heart this moment dictates; forgetful of the past, regardless of the
future? Is this love mine?"

"It is," I answered, looking up through fast-falling tears. "Why will
you wring this confession from me, when you only know it too well?"

"One question more, Gabriella, for your truth-telling lips to answer. Is
this love only given in _return_? Did it not spring spontaneously forth
from the warmth and purity of your own heart, without waiting the avowal
of mine? Gratitude is not love. It is _stone_, not bread, to a spirit as
exacting as mine."

Again the truth was forced from me by his unconquerable will,--a will
that opened the secret valves of thought, and rolled away the rock from
the fountain of feeling. Even then I felt the despotism as well as the
strength of his love.

I cannot, I dare not, repeat all that he uttered. It would be deemed too
extravagant, too high-wrought. And so it was. Let woman tremble rather
than exult, when she is the object of a passion so intense. The devotion
of her whole being cannot satisfy its inordinate demands. Though the
flame of the sacrifice ascend to heaven, it still cries, "Bring gifts to
the altar,--bring the wine of the banquet,--the incense of the
temple,--the fuel of the hearth-stone. Bring all, and still I crave.
Give all, I ask for more."

Not then was this warning suggested. To be wildly, passionately loved,
was my heart's secret prayer. Life itself would be a willing sacrifice
to this devotion. Suspicion that stood sentinel at the door of Faith,
Distrust that th