he world; but if I was to live a thousand years, you would always
see the sorrow that your words made me feel visible upon my countenance.
I'm not angry with you, Denis; but I'm telling you the truth."

"Susan, my darling, this is either weakness of mind or ill health. I
will see you as beautiful and happy as ever. For my part, I now tell
you, that no power on earth can separate us! Yes, my beloved Susan, I
will see you as happy and happier than I have ever seen you. That will
be when you are my own young and guileless wife."

"Ah, no, Denis! My mind is made up: I can never be your wife, Do you
think that I would bring the anger of God upon myself, by temptin' you
back from the holy office you're entering into? Think of it yourself
Denis. Your feelings are melted now by our discoorse, and, maybe,
because I'm near you; but when time passes, you'll be glad that in the
moment of weakness you didn't give way to them. I know it's natural for
you to love me now. You're lavin' me--you're lavin' the place where I
am--the little river and the glen where we so often met, and where we
often spent many a happy hour together. That has an effect upon you;
for why should I deny it--you see it--it is hard--very hard--even upon
myself."

She neither sobbed nor cried so as to be heard, but the tears gushed
down her cheeks in torrents.

"Susan," said Denis, in an unsteady voice, "you speak in vain. Every
word you say tells me that I cannot live without you; and I will not."

"Don't say that, Denis. Suppose we should be married, think of what I
would suffer if I saw you in poverty or distress, brought on because
you married me! Why, my heart would sink entirely under it. Then your
friends would never give me a warm heart. Me! they would never give
yourself a, warm heart; and I would rather be dead than see you brought
to shame, or ill-treatment, or poverty, on my account. Pray to God,
Denis, to grant you grace to overcome whatever you feel for me. I have
prayed both for you and myself. Oh, pray to him, Denis, sincerely, that
he may enable you to forget that such, a girl--such an unhappy girl--as
Susan Connor ever lived!"

Poor Denis was so much overcome that he could not restrain his tears. He
gazed upon the melancholy countenance of the fair girl, in a delirium of
love and admiration; but in a few minutes he replied:--

"Susan, your words are lost: I am determined. Oh! great heavens! what
a treasure was I near losing! Susan, hear m