Virginia Abbot sat there, her perfect form outlined against the dark, moss-grown rock that arose, rugged and grand, behind her.  The softened light, as it fell upon her through the boughs of the tree above her, made her seem like some exquisite picture painted by a master-hand.  Her hands, white as Parian marble, were quietly folded in her lap, but her heart was in a tumult of joy, and her color came and went in fitful flushes.

She knew that she deeply loved this grand man, who had come to her mountain home in the early summer time, and she felt that earth could hold no higher happiness for her than to become his wife and go with him whithersoever he willed.  But she knew, too, that her first duty lay with her father; that she must have no interests that would interfere with the care and attention which she owed to him in his failing condition.

“Virgie, you will not crush the sweet hope that has been taking root in my heart during these months that I have spent with you,” Sir William pleaded, his face paling as she did not answer, and a fear smiting him that he might have been nourishing a delusion.  “I have fancied that I have seen the love-light dawning in your eyes—­oh, do not tell me that I have been deceiving myself.  My darling, I will try to make your life very bright if you will give yourself to me.”

Virgie looked up now with a steady, unwavering glance into his eager eyes, although her face was dyed with blushes.

“Mr. Heath,” she faltered, “you know I cannot leave my father.”

“Of course I know it,” he returned, his face lighting “I do not ask it, darling; I only ask that you will give yourself into my keeping, and then we will devote ourselves to him as long as he lives.  Oh, my dearest”—­as he saw an answering gleam in her eyes—­“you do love me!”

“Yes, I love you,” Virgie breathed, with a downcast but happy face; and then she was gathered close to her lover’s manly breast in a fond embrace.

“My love! my love!  I would serve twice seven years, as Jacob did, in this wild region for the sake of winning that coveted confession from your dear lips.  My mountain queen! and you will soon be my wife?”

But Virgie sat up suddenly at this and pushed him from her with gentle force, a frightened look in her eyes.  Oh, “what have I done?  I am afraid I have done wrong!” she cried.

“Wrong, dearest, in confessing that you love me!” Sir William whispered, as he tried to draw her again into his arms.

“But you do not know—­I have no right to tell you; no—­no, I am afraid I ought not to be your wife,” she said, remembering, with a sense of shame and misery, the stigma resting upon her name.

The young man regarded her anxiously for a moment; then he understood it all.

“Virgie,” he said, “you need not fear to promise all that I ask, for I know what troubles you.  I asked your father’s sanction to my suit before I came to you, and he told me all his sad story.  But it need be no barrier to our happiness.  I told him so, and he gave you to me—­providing I could win you—­with his blessing.”