Mary gazed on her young companion, he had spoken with unwonted animation, and his mild eye rested with trusting fondness upon her; she dared not meet it; her pale cheek suddenly became crimson, but with an effort she replied—­

“Buoy me not up with vain hopes, Herbert; it is better, perhaps, that I should never look to my return, for hope might descend to vain wishes, and wishes to repinings, which must not be.  I shall look on other scenes of loveliness, and though in them perhaps no fond association of earth may be mingled, yet there is one of which no change of country can deprive me, one association that from scenes as these can never never fly.  The friends of my youth will be no longer near me, strangers alone will surround me; but even as the hand of my Heavenly Father is marked in every scene, however far apart, so is that hand, that love extended to me wherever I may dwell.  Oh, that my heart may indeed be filled with the love of Him.”

There was a brief silence.  The countenance of Herbert had been for a moment troubled, but after a few seconds resumed its serenity, heightened by the fervid feelings of his heart.

“Mary,” he said, taking her passive hand in his, “if I am too bold in speaking all I wish, forgive me.  You know not how I have longed for one moment of unchecked confidence before you left England, it is now before me, and, oh, listen to me, dearest Mary, with that kindness you have ever shown.  I need not remind you of our days of childhood and early youth; I need not recall the mutual sympathy which, in every feeling, hope, joy, or sorrow, has been our own.  We have grown together, played together in infancy; read, thought, and often in secret prayed together in youth.  To you I have ever imparted my heartfelt wishes, earnest prayers for my future life, to become a worthy servant of my God, and lead others in his path, and yet, frail mortal as I am, I feel, even if these wishes are fulfilled, there will yet, dearest Mary, remain a void within my heart.  May I, may I, indeed, behold in the playmate of my infancy a friend in manhood, the partner of my life—­my own Mary as my assistant in labours of love?  I am agitating you, dearest girl, forgive me; only give me some little hope.  Years must elapse ere that blessed moment can arrive, perhaps I have been wrong to urge it now, but I could not part from you without one word to explain my feelings, to implore your ever-granted sympathy.”

The hand of Mary trembled in his grasp.  She had turned from his pleading glance, but when he ceased, she raised her head and struggled to speak.  A smile, beautiful, holy in its beauty, appeared struggling with tears, and a faint flush had risen to her cheek, but voice she had none, and for one moment she concealed her face on his shoulder.  She withdrew not her hand from his, and Herbert felt—­oh, how gratefully—­that his love was returned; he had not hoped in vain.  For some minutes they could not speak, every feeling was in common; together