She came freely and without hesitation, though her heart was tremulous with doubt and sorrow.  She had nothing now to learn of her utter hopelessness, and her strength was gathered from her despair.  Ralph was shocked at the surprising ravages which a few days of indisposition had made upon that fine and delicate richness of complexion and expression which had marked her countenance before.  He had no notion that she was unhappy beyond the cure of time.  On the contrary, with a modesty almost akin to dullness—­having had no idea of his own influence over the maiden—­he was disposed to regard the recent events—­the death of Munro and the capture of Rivers—­as they relieved her from a persecution which had been cruelly distressing, rather calculated to produce a degree of relief, to which she had not for a long time been accustomed; and which, though mingled up with events that prevented it from being considered matter for rejoicing, was yet not a matter for one in her situation very greatly to deplore.

Her appearance, however, only made him more assiduously gentle and affectionate in the duties he had undertaken to perform.  He approached her with the freedom of one warranted by circumstances in recognising in her person a relation next to the sweetest and the dearest in life.  With the familiar regard of a brother, he took her hand, and, placing her beside him on the rude sofa of the humble parlor, he proceeded to those little inquiries after her health, and of those about her, which usually form the opening topics of all conversation.  He proceeded then to remind her of that trying night, when, in defiance of female fears, and laudably regardless of those staid checks and restraints by which her sex would conceal or defend its weaknesses, she had dared to save his life.

His manner, generally warm and eager, dilated something beyond its wont; and if ever gratitude had yet its expression from human lips and in human language, it was poured forth at that moment from his into the ears of Lucy Munro.

And she felt its truth; she relied upon the uttered words of the speaker; and her eyes grew bright with a momentary kindling, her check flushed under his glance, while her heart, losing something of the chillness which had so recently oppressed it, felt lighter and less desolate in that abode of sadness and sweetness, the bosom in which it dwelt.

Yet, after all, when thought came again under the old aspect—­when she remembered his situation and her own, she felt the shadow once more come over her with an icy influence.  It was not gratitude which her heart craved from that of Ralph Colleton.  The praise and the approval and the thanks of others might have given her pleasure, but these were not enough from him; and she sighed that he from whom alone love would be precious, had nothing less frigid than gratitude to offer.  But even that was much, and she felt it deeply.  His approbation was not a little to a spirit whose reference to him was perpetual;