“My dear Charles, if love were without fear it would lose half its tenderness.  An eternal sunshine, would soon sicken the world.  But as for your apprehensions of my solitary heart failing against such difficulties as it must encounter, you seem to omit one slight element in calculating your terrors, and that simple element is a host in itself.”

“Which is?”

“Love for you, dear Charles.  I know you may probably feel that this avowal ought to be expressed with more hesitation, veiled over by the hypocrisy of language, disguised by the hackneyed forms of mere sentiment, uttered like the assertions of a coquette, and degraded by that tampering with truth which makes the heart lie unto itself.  Oh, yes!—­perhaps, Charles, you may think that because I fail to express what I feel in that spirit of ambiguity which a love not confident in the truth, purity, and rectitude of its own principles must always borrow—­that because my heart fails to approach yours by the usual circuitous route with which ordinary hearts do approach—­yes, you may imagine for all these reasons that my affection is not—­but—­” and here she checked herself—­“why,” she added, with dignity, whilst her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled, “why should I apologize for the avowal of a love of which I am not ashamed, and which has its strongest defence in the worth and honor of its object?”

Tears of enthusiasm rushed down her cheeks as she spoke, and her lover could only say, “Dearest Lucy, most beloved of my heart, your language, your sentiments, your feelings—­so pure, so noble, so far above those commonplaces of your sex, only cause me to shrink almost into nothing when I compare or contrast myself with you.  Let, however, one principle guide us—­the confidence that our love is mutual and cannot be disturbed.  I am for the present placed in circumstances that are exceedingly painful.  In point of fact, I am wrapped in obscurity and shadow, and there exists, besides, a possibility that I may not become, in point of fortune, such a man as you might possibly wish to look upon as your husband.”

“If you are now suffering your fine mind, Charles, to become unconsciously warped by the common prejudices of life, I beseech you to reflect upon the heart to which you address yourself.  Society presents not a single prejudice which in any degree aids or supports virtue, and truth, and honor, that I do not cherish, and wish you to cherish; but if you imagine that you will become less dear to me because you may fail to acquire some of the artificial dignities or honors of life, then it is clear that you know not how to estimate the spirit and character of Lucy Grourlay.”

“I know you will be severely tried, my dear Lucy.”