and when—­her hand in his—­he recounted the adventures of that night—­when he dwelt upon her courage—­upon her noble disregard of opinions which might have chilled in many of her sex the fine natural currents of that godlike humanity which conventional forms, it is well to think, can not always fetter or abridge—­when he expatiated upon all these things with all the fervor of his temperament—­she with a due modesty, shrinking from the recital of her own performances—­she felt every moment additional pleasure in his speech of praise.  When, at length, relating the particulars of the escape and death of Munro, he proceeded, with all the tender caution of a brother, softening the sorrow into sadness, and plucking from grief as much of the sting as would else have caused the wound to rankle, she felt that though another might sway his heart and its richer affections, she was not altogether destitute of its consideration and its care.

“And now, Lucy—­my sweet sister—­for my sister you are now—­you will accede to your uncle’s prayer and mine—­you will permit me to be your brother, and to provide for you as such.  In this wild region it fits not that you should longer abide.  This wilderness is uncongenial—­it is foreign to a nature like yours.  You have been too long its tenant—­mingling with creatures not made for your association, none of whom are capable of appreciating your worth.  You must come with us, and live with my uncle—­with my cousin Edith—­”

“Edith!”—­and she looked inquiringly, while a slight flush of the cheek and kindling of the eye in him followed the utterance of the single word by her, and accompanied his reply.

“Yes, Edith—­Edith Colleton, Lucy, is the name of my cousin, and the relationship will soon be something closer between us.  You will love her, and she, I know, will love you as a sister, and as the preserver of one so very humble as myself.  It was a night of danger when you first heard her name, and saw her features; and when you and she will converse over that night and its events, I feel satisfied that it will bring you both only the closer to one another.”

“We will not talk of it farther, Mr. Colleton—­I would not willingly hear of it again.  It is enough that you are now free from all such danger—­enough that all things promise well for the future.  Let not any thought of past evil, or of risk successfully encountered, obscure the prospect—­let no thought of me produce an emotion, hostile, even for a moment, to your peace.”

“And why should you think, my sweet girl, and with an air of such profound sorrow, that such a thought must be productive of such an emotion.  Why should the circumstances so happily terminating, though perilous at first, necessarily bring sorrow with remembrance.  Surely you are now but exhibiting the sometimes coy perversity which is ascribed to your sex.  You are now, in a moment of calm, but assuming those winning playfulnesses of a sex, conscious of charm and power,