“I, too, prefer mournful—­mournful music,” replied Jane.  “That was a beautiful air you played just now.”

Osborne put the flute to his lips, and commenced playing over again the air she had praised; but, on glancing at the fair girl, he perceived her eyes fixed upon him with a look of such deep and devoted passion as utterly overcame him.  Her eyes, as before, were immediately withdrawn, but there dwelt again upon her burning cheek such a consciousness of her love as could not, for a moment, be mistaken.  In fact she betrayed all the confused symptoms of one who felt that the state of her heart had been discovered.  Osborne ceased playing; for such was his agitation that he scarcely knew what he thought or did.

“I cannot go on,” said he in a voice which equally betrayed the state of his heart; “I cannot play;” and at the same time he seated himself beside her.

Jane rose as he spoke, and in a broken voice, full of an expression like distress, said hastily: 

“It is time I should go;—­I am,—­I am too long out.”

Osborne caught her hand, and in words that burned with the deep and melting contagion of his passion, said simply: 

“Do not go:—­oh do not yet go!”

She looked full upon him, and perceived that as he spoke his face became deadly pale, as if her words were to seal his happiness or misery.

“Oh do not leave me now,” he pleaded; “do not go, and my life may yet be happy.”

“I must,” she replied, with great difficulty; “I cannot stay; I do not wish you to be unhappy;” and whilst saying this, the tears that ran in silence down her cheeks proved too clearly how dear his happiness must ever be to her.

Osborne’s arm glided round her waist, and she resumed her seat,—­or rather tottered into it.

“You are in tears,” he exclaimed.  “Oh could it be true!  Is it not, my beloved girl?  It is—­it is—­love!  Oh surely, surely it must—­it must!”

She sobbed aloud once or twice; and, as he kissed her unresisting lips, she murmured out, “It is; it is; I love you.”

Oh life! how dark and unfathomable are thy mysteries!  And why is it that thou permittest the course of true love, like this, so seldom to run smooth, when so many who, uniting through the impulse of sordid passion, sink into a state of obtuse indifference, over which the lights and shadows that touch thee into thy finest perceptions of enjoyment pass in vain.

It is a singular fact, but no less true than singular, that since the world began there never was known any instance of an anxiety, on the part of youthful lovers, to prolong to an immoderate extent the scene in which the first mutual avowal of their passions takes place.  The excitement is too profound, and the waste of those delicate spirits, which are expended in such interviews, is much too great to permit the soul to bear such an excess of happiness long.  Independently of this, there is associated with it an ultimate enjoyment, for which the lovers immediately fly to solitude; there, in the certainty of waking bliss, to think over and over again of all that has occurred between them, and to luxuriate in the conviction, that at length the heart has not another wish, but sinks into the solitary charm which expands it with such a sense of rapturous and exulting delight.