As an inmate of her father’s family, he was, of course, a constant companion of Emily.  Her radiant beauty had captivated his heart long ere the month had expired; and he saw, or thought he saw, in the heart of the fair girl, indications of a sympathetic sentiment.  In the rashness of his warm blood he had allowed himself to cherish a lively hope that his dawning love was not entirely unrequited.  He had seen that his bouquet was more fondly cherished than the offerings of others; that his hand, as she alighted from the carriage, was more gladly received than any other; that his conversation never wearied her; in short, there was in all their intercourse an unmistakable exponent of feelings deeper than those of common friendship.

In the midst of this delighted existence,—­while yet he revelled in the pleasure of loving and being loved,—­there came to him, like a dark cloud over a clear sky, the unwelcome thought that it was wrong for him to entangle the affections of his benefactor’s daughter.  He was a beggar,—­the object of her father’s charity.  Her prospects were brilliant and certain, and he felt that he had no right to mar or destroy them.  He knew that she would love him none the less for his poverty; but, probably, her father had already anticipated something better than a beggar for his future son-in-law.

Poor Captain Carroll!  The modesty of true greatness of soul had left unconsidered the genuine nobility of the man.  He thought not of the name he had won on the field of battle,—­of the honorable wounds he bore as testimonials of his devotion to his country.  He was poor, and, in the despondency which his position induced, he attributed to wealth a value which to the truly good it never possesses.

He loved Emily, and his poverty seemed to shut him out from the hallowed field to which his heart fondly sought admission.

Henry Carroll was a high-minded man; he felt that to love the daughter while the father’s views were unknown to him would be rank ingratitude; and ingratitude towards so good a man, so kind a benefactor, was repugnant to every principle of his nature.  There was but one path open to him.  If he could not help loving her, he could strive to prevent the loved one from squandering her affections where pain and sorrow might ensue.  They had often met; but he strove to believe, in his unwilling zeal, that their intimacy had not yet resulted in an incurable passion.  She had as yet shown nothing that could not have resulted from simple friendship.  And yet she had,—­the warm glow that adorned her cheek when she received his flower, the expressive glance of her soft eye as he assisted her to the carriage, the sweet smile with which she had always greeted him,—­ah, no, these were not friendship!  I He could not believe that his affection was unreturned; it was too precious to remain unacknowledged.  The will and the heart would not conform to each other.  But his duty seemed plain, and he did not hesitate to obey its call, though it demanded a great sacrifice.