The month to which he had limited his visit at Bellevue expired about the period at which our tale begins.  Inclination prompted him to accept the pressing invitation of Colonel Dumont to prolong his stay; but, bitter as was the thought of parting from her he loved, his nice sense of honor compelled him to be firm in his purpose.

The announcement of his intended departure to Emily, as they were seated in the drawing-room on the designated day, afforded him another evidence that her heart was not untouched.  Her pale cheek grew paler, and the playful smile was instantly dismissed.

“So soon?” said she, scarcely able to conceal the tremulous emotion which agitated her.

“So soon!  I have finished the month allotted to me,” replied Henry Carroll, with a weak effort to appear gayer than he felt.

“Allotted to you!  And pray are you stinted in the length of your visit?”

“My orders will not permit a longer stay, happy as I should be to remain; and I have already trespassed long on your hospitality.”

“Indeed, Henry, you have grown sensitive!  You were not wont to consider your visits a trespass.  Pray, have you not been regarded as one of the family?”

“True, I have.  I can never repay the debt of gratitude for the many kindnesses I have received at your good father’s hands.”

“He has been a thousand times repaid by the honorable life you have led,—­by feeling that the talents he has encouraged you to foster are now blessing the world,” replied Emily, warmly; “so no more of your gratitude, if you please.”

“However lightly you, or your father, may regard my obligations to him, I cannot view them coldly.”

“Well, then, your presence here will give him more pleasure than any other token of respect you can bestow; and, I am sure, I should be rejoiced—­that is to say—­that is—­I should be glad to have you stay longer, if you can be contented,” stammered Emily, as her mantling blushes betrayed her confusion.  Deception was not in her nature, and, strive as hard as she might, she must reveal her feelings.

“I should be happier than it is possible for me to express in remaining at Bellevue.  My month has passed away like a dream of pleasure,—­so short it seemed that time had staid his wheels,—­so joyous that earth seemed shorn of sorrow.  You know not how much I have enjoyed the society of your father, and, pardon me, of yourself,” returned Henry, scarcely less confused than Emily.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” she replied, with some hesitation, and fearful of exposing the sentiment she was conscious of cherishing.  “I have thought that, accustomed as you are to the stirring life of the camp, you had grown tired of our quiet home.”

“You wrong me, Emily, I should never weary here; but I was fearful that I had already staid too long,” said Henry, in a sad tone, for he felt it most deeply, though not in the sense that Emily understood him.