“It may be so,” she said, still calmly, though a deep flush stained her cheek.  Herbert had spoken playfully, but there was that in his words which, to a heart seared as was hers, was productive of intense suffering.

“It may be so perhaps; I shall never meet one to love, as I believe a husband ought to be loved, yet that would not satisfy my conscience for accepting Walter.  I trust I am not romantic, Herbert, but I will say, that the vow to love, honour, and obey, to think only of him, demands something more than the mere cold esteem which some may deem sufficient for happiness.  Walter is an estimable young man, one who will make any woman happy, and deeply indeed I regret that he has chosen one who can only return his warm devoted affection with the comparatively chilling sentiments of friendship and esteem.  I would not do his kind heart so much wrong as to accept him.”

“But take time, Ellen, give him some hope.  You can urge no objections against him, and his family are dear to you.  He has told me that from his childhood he loved you, that your remembrance never left him, and when again he met you, his fanciful visions became a beautiful and palpable reality; give him, at least, some time for hope.  It is impossible, with a heart disengaged as yours, to associate intimately with him and not love him.”

“A heart disengaged as mine! how know you that, Herbert?” said his cousin, with a smile, which would have deceived the most penetrating eye.  “Are you not presuming too far in your inspection of my heart, seeking in rather a roundabout way, to obtain my entire confidence?”

“No, dearest Ellen, I speak and feel in this business but as Edward would, were he in my place; your happiness is as dear to me as it is to him.  We have for very many years been to each other as a brother and sister, and, believe me, in urging your acceptance of this good young man, I seek but your welfare alone.”

“I believe you, my dear cousin,” replied Ellen, frankly holding out her hand, which Herbert warmly pressed.  “But indeed, in this instance, you are deceived.  An union with Walter Cameron would not form my happiness, worthy as he is,—­suitable as the world would deem such a match in all respects; and sorry as I am to inflict pain and disappointment on the companion of my childhood, as also, I fear, on his kind mother, I cannot be his wife.”

“And if your affections be already engaged, far be it from me to urge you farther; but”—­

“I said not that they were, Herbert,” interrupted Ellen, steadily fixing, as she spoke, her large eyes unshrinkingly on her cousin’s face.  Herbert felt fairly puzzled, he could not read her heart; he would have asked her confidence, he would have promised to do all in his power to forward her happiness, but there was something around her that, while it called forth his almost unconscious respect, entirely checked all farther question.  He did not fancy that she loved another, and yet why this determined rejection of a young man whom he knew she esteemed.