“It is a stupid book, a very stupid book—­a story of false sentiment, and of mock and artificial feelings, of which I know, and care to know, nothing.  But it has told me so much that I feel is true, and that chimes in with my own experience.  It has told me much besides, that I am glad to have been taught.  Hear me then, dear Edith, and smile not carelessly at my words, for I have now learned to tremble when I speak, in fear lest I should offend you.”

She would have spoken words of assurance—­she would have taught him to think better of her affections and their strength; but his impetuosity checked her in her speech.

“I know what you would say, and my heart thanks you for it, as if its very life depended upon the utterance.  You would tell me to have no such fear; but the fear is a portion of myself now—­it is my heart itself.  Hear me then, Edith—­my Edith, if you will so let me call you.”

Her hand rested on his assuringly, with a gentle pressure.  He continued—­

“Hitherto we have lived with each other, only with each other—­we have loved each other, and I have almost only loved you.  Neither of us, Edith (may I believe it of you?) has known much of any other affection.  But how long is this to last? that book—­where is it? but no matter—­it has taught me that, now, when a few months will carry us both into the world, it is improper that our relationship should continue.  It says we can not be the children any longer that we have been—­that such intercourse—­I can now perceive why—­would be injurious to you.  Do you understand me?”

The blush of a first consciousness came over the cheek of the maiden, as she withdrew her hand from his passionate clasp.

“Ah!  I see already,” he exclaimed:  “you too have learned the lesson.  And is it thus—­and we are to be happy no longer!”

“Ralph!”—­she endeavored to speak, but could proceed no further, and her hand was again, silently and without objection, taken into the grasp of his.  The youth, after a brief pause, resumed, in a tone, which though it had lost much of its impetuousness, was yet full of stern resolution.

“Hear me, Edith—­but a word—­a single word.  I love you, believe me, dear Edith, I love you.”

The effect of this declaration was scarcely such as the youth desired.  She had been so much accustomed to his warm admiration, indicated frequently in phrases such as these, that it had the effect of restoring to her much of her self-possession, of which the nature of the previous dialogue had a little deprived her; and, in the most natural manner in the world, she replied—­perhaps too, we may add, with much of the artlessness of art—­

“Why, to be sure you do, Cousin Ralph—­it would be something strange indeed if you did not.  I believe you love me, as I am sure you can never doubt how much you are beloved by me!”