“My kind little cousin,” he said, taking her hand, “you have been ill—­are you better?”

“I am quite well, and should be quite happy, dear Anthony, if I could see you looking so.  But you are ill and low-spirited; I read it all in your dim eye and dejected looks.  Come, sit down, and take a cup of tea.  You have eaten nothing all day.  Here is a nice fowl, delicately cooked, which Ruth prepared for your especial benefit.  Do let me see you take something.”

“I cannot eat,” said Anthony, pushing the plate from him, and eagerly swallowing the cup of refreshing tea that Clary presented.  “I am ill, Clary, but mine is a disease of the mind.  I am, indeed, far from happy; I wish I could tell you all the deep sorrow that lies so death-like at my heart.”

“And why do you make it worse by concealment?” said Clary, rising and going round to the side of the table on which he was leaning; “you need not fear to trust me, Anthony; there is no one I love on earth so well, except dear Frederic.  Will you not let your little cousin share your grief?”

“My sweet child,” said Anthony, winding his arm around her slender waist, and leaning his head on her shoulder, “you could render me no assistance; the knowledge of my sorrow would only make you miserable.”

“If it is anything about Juliet, tell me freely.  Perhaps, you think, dear Anthony, that I am jealous of you and Juliet; oh, no, I love you too well for that.  I know that I can never be as dear to you as Juliet; that she is more worthy of your love—­Good Heavens! you are weeping.  What have I said to cause these tears?  Anthony, dear Anthony, speak to me.  You distract me.  Oh, tell me that I have not offended you.”

Anthony’s lips moved, but no word issued from them.  His eyes were firmly closed, his brow pale as marble, and large tears slid in quick succession from beneath the jet-black lashes that lay like a shadow upon his ashen cheeks.  And other tears were mingling with those drops of heart-felt agony—­tears of the tenderest sympathy, the most devoted love, as, leaning that fair face upon the cold brow of the unhappy youth, Clary unconsciously kissed away those waters of the heart, and pressed that wan cheek against her gentle bosom.  She felt his arm tighten round her, as she stood in the embrace of the beloved, scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of breaking the sad spell that had linked them together.  At length Anthony unclosed his eyes, and looked long and earnestly up in his young companion’s face—­

“Oh, Clary! how shall I repay this love, my poor innocent lamb?  Would to God we had never met!”

“Do not say that, Anthony.  I never knew what it was to be happy until I knew you.”

“Then you love life better than you did, Clary?”

“I love you,” sighed Clary, hiding her fair face among his ebon curls, “and the new life with which you have inspired me is very dear.”

“Oh, that I could bid you cherish it for my sake, dear artless girl!  But we must part.  In a few hours the faulty being whom you have rashly dared to love, may be no longer a denizen of earth.”