The tell-tale cheek of the girl blushed a recognition of the compliment implied in the words, and after a short silence, she said, in a tone that was any thing but indifferent, and with a view of changing the conversation—­

“I hope you are quite recovered from your illness.”

“With the exception of a very slight cough, I am,” he replied.

“I think,” she observed, “that you look somewhat paler than you did.”

“That paleness does not proceed from indisposition, but from a far different”—­he paused again, and looked evidently abashed.  In the course of a minute, however, he added, “yes, I know I am pale, but not because I am unwell, for my health is nearly, if not altogether, restored, but because I am unhappy.”

“Strange,” said Jane, “to see one unhappy at your years.”

“I think I know my own character and disposition well,” he replied; “my temperament is naturally a melancholy one; the frame of my mind is like that of my body, very delicate, and capable of being affected by a thousand slight influences which pass over hearts of a stronger mould, without ever being felt.  Life to me, I know, will be productive of much pain, and much enjoyment, while its tenure lasts, but that, indeed, will not be long.  My sands are measured, for I feel a presentiment, a mournful and prophetic impression, that I am doomed to go down into an early grave.”

The tone of passionate enthusiasm which pervaded these words, uttered as they were in a voice wherein pathos and melody were equally blended, appeared to be almost too much for a creature whose sympathy in all his moods and feelings was then so deep and congenial.  She felt some difficulty in repressing her tears, and said, in a voice which no effort could keep firm.

“You ought not to indulge in those gloomy forebodings; you should struggle against them, otherwise they will distress your mind, and injure your health.”

“Oh, you do not know,” he proceeded, his eyes sparkling with that light which is so often the beacon of death—­“you do not know the fatal fascination by which a mind, set to the sorrows of a melancholy temperament, is charmed out of its strength.  But no matter how dark may be my dreams—­there is one light for ever upon them—­one image ever, ever before me—­one figure of grace and beauty—­oh, how could I deny myself the contemplation of a vision that pours into my soul a portion of itself, and effaces:  every other object but an entrancing sense of its own presence.  I cannot, I cannot—­it bears me away into a happiness that is full of sadness—­where I indulge alone, without knowing why, in my feast of tears’—­happy! happy! so I think, and so I feel; yet why is my heart sunk, and why are all my visions filled with death and the grave?”

“Oh, do not talk so frequently of death,” replied the beautiful girl, “surely you need not fear it for a long while.  This morbid tone of mind will pass away when you grow into better health and strength.”