“Let not that affright you.”

“Affright me!  It has killed me.”

“Nay, Flora,—­you think too much of what I still hope to be susceptible of far more rational explanation.”

“By your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you.  I cannot, I dare not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me, Charles; if a more rational explanation than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the form that visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and from madness.”

They had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered these words she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively.

“You have spoken,” said Charles, dejectedly.  “I have heard that which you wished to say to me.”

“No, no.  Not all, Charles.”

“I will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should tear my very heart-strings.”

“I—­I have to add, Charles,” she said, in a tremulous voice, “that justice, religion, mercy—­every human attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under different auspices.”

“Go on, Flora.”

“I then implore you, Charles, finding me what I am, to leave me to the fate which it has pleased Heaven to cast upon me.  I do not ask you, Charles, not to love me.”

“’Tis well.  Go on, Flora.”

“Because I should like to think that, although I might never see you more, you loved me still.  But you must think seldom of me, and you must endeavour to be happy with some other—­”

“You cannot, Flora, pursue the picture you yourself would draw.  These words come not from your heart.”

“Yes—­yes—­yes.”

“Did you ever love me?”

“Charles, Charles, why will you add another pang to those you know must already rend my heart?”

“No, Flora, I would tear my own heart from my bosom ere I would add one pang to yours.  Well I know that gentle maiden modesty would seal your lips to the soft confession that you loved me.  I could not hope the joy of hearing you utter these words.  The tender devoted lover is content to see the truthful passion in the speaking eyes of beauty.  Content is he to translate it from a thousand acts, which, to eyes that look not so acutely as a lover’s, bear no signification; but when you tell me to seek happiness with another, well may the anxious question burst from my throbbing heart of, ‘Did you ever love me, Flora?’”

Her senses hung entranced upon his words.  Oh, what a witchery is in the tongue of love.  Some even of the former colour of her cheek returned as forgetting all for the moment but that she was listening to the voice of him, the thoughts of whom had made up the day dream of her happiness, she gazed upon his face.

His voice ceased.  To her it seemed as if some music had suddenly left off in its most exquisite passage.  She clung to his arm—­she looked imploringly up to him.  Her head sunk upon his breast as she cried,