“Dear Corinne!” he cried, “has my absence pained you?”

“Yes,” she replied, “you must have known it would.  Why then inflict such pangs on me?  Have I deserved them?”

Her emotion greatly affected Oswald.  “I will visit you again to-morrow, Corinne,” he said.  “Swear it!” she exclaimed, eagerly.  “I do.”

II.—­The Living and the Dead

Oswald’s natural irresolution had been augmented by misfortune, and he hesitated before entering upon an irrevocable engagement.  Although he no longer sought to disguise his affection for Corinne, he did not propose marriage to her.  She, on her part, was mortified by his silence.  Often he was on the point of breaking it; but the thought of his father restrained him—­and the thought of Lucy Edgarmond, the English girl whom his father had wished him to marry, when she was old enough, and whom he had not seen since she was a child of twelve.  What, he asked himself, again and again, was his duty?

One day, as he was visiting her at her house at Tivoli, she took her harp and sang one of those simple Scotch ballads, the notes of which seemed fit to be borne on the wailing breeze.  Oswald’s heart was touched at the memories thus awakened of his own country; his eyes filled with tears.

“Ah, Corinne,” he cried, “does then my country affect your heart?  Could you go with me there, and be the partner of my life?”

“Surely I could,” she answered, “for I love you.”

“In love’s name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more secrets from me.”

“Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald.  I only ask that you require not my story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must decide my fate?”

“Corinne,” he said, “if thy fate depends on me, it shall no longer be a sad one.”

When Easter was over, Corinne set out for Naples, where she had many friends and admirers; and Oswald accompanied her there.  She still feared to tell the story of her life.

“Who can tell,” she said to Oswald, “if, when I have opened my heart to you, you will remain the same?  How can I help trembling beneath such doubt?”

To encourage her, and to exchange confidences honourably with her, he told her his own secret He had been skilfully drawn into an intrigue with a scheming Frenchwoman, utterly against his father’s wishes; when he had escaped from the net that had been cast for him, and was hurrying homeward, he heard the news that the being whom he loved and revered most of all mankind was dead.  He had knelt at his father’s tomb and sworn in atonement that he would never marry without his consent.  But how obtain the consent of one who was no more?  Lucy Edgarmond—­Corinne started at the name—­had been destined by his father for his bride.  Was the wish one that could be set aside?  He had simply advised the match, for Lucy was still a child with character unformed.