Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive countenance shone for a moment with tenderness; to see him only was happiness.  But a bitter thought swiftly shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the ground, endeavouring to master the passion of tears that threatened to overwhelm her.  Raymond continued, “I will not act a part with you, dear girl, or appear other than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to excite your disdain than your love.  Yet you do love me; I feel and know that you do, and thence I draw my most cherished hopes.  If pride guided you, or even reason, you might well reject me.  Do so; if your high heart, incapable of my infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend to the lowness of mine.  Turn from me, if you will,—­if you can.  If your whole soul does not urge you to forgive me—­if your entire heart does not open wide its door to admit me to its very centre, forsake me, never speak to me again.  I, though sinning against you almost beyond remission, I also am proud; there must be no reserve in your pardon—­no drawback to the gift of your affection.”

Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased.  My presence embarrassed her; so that she dared not turn to meet her lover’s eye, or trust her voice to assure him of her affection; while a blush mantled her cheek, and her disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-felt joy.  Raymond encircled her waist with his arm, and continued, “I do not deny that I have balanced between you and the highest hope that mortal men can entertain; but I do so no longer.  Take me—­mould me to your will, possess my heart and soul to all eternity.  If you refuse to contribute to my happiness, I quit England to-night, and will never set foot in it again.

“Lionel, you hear:  witness for me:  persuade your sister to forgive the injury I have done her; persuade her to be mine.”

“There needs no persuasion,” said the blushing Perdita, “except your own dear promises, and my ready heart, which whispers to me that they are true.”

That same evening we all three walked together in the forest, and, with the garrulity which happiness inspires, they detailed to me the history of their loves.  It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and reserved Perdita changed through happy love into prattling, playful children, both losing their characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual contentment.  A night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a brow of care, and a heart oppressed with thought, bent all his energies to silence or persuade the legislators of England that a sceptre was not too weighty for his hand, while visions of dominion, war, and triumph floated before him; now, frolicsome as a lively boy sporting under his mother’s approving eye, the hopes of his ambition were complete, when he pressed the small fair hand of Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant with delight, looked on the still pool, not truly admiring herself, but drinking in with rapture the reflection there made of the form of herself and her lover, shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.