The glow which mantled over the cheek of the agitated girl, plainly told that this passionate appeal was made to no unwilling ear.  Still she spoke not.

“Dearest Julia, answer me—­the moments of my stay are few, and at each instant we are liable to interruption.  In one word, therefore, may I hope?  In less than a week, many who have long been friends will meet as enemies.  Let me then at least have the consolation to know from your lips, that whatever be the event, that dearest of all gifts—­your regard—­is unchangeably mine.”

“I do promise, Ernest,” faltered the trembling girl.  “My heart is yours and yours forever—­but do not unnecessarily expose yourself,” and her head sank confidingly on the shoulder of her lover.

“Thank you, dearest,” and the encircling arm of the impassioned officer drew her form closer to his beating heart.  Gertrude, you are witness of her vow, and before you, under more auspicious circumstances, will I claim its fulfilment.  Oh Julia, Julia, this indeed does recompense me for many a long hour of anxiety and doubt.”

“And hers too have been hours of anxiety and doubt,” said the gentle Gertrude.  “Ever since the war has been spoken of as certain, Julia has been no longer the gay girl she was.  Her dejection has been subject of remark with all, and such is her dislike to any allusion to the past, that she never even rallies Captain Cranstoun on his bear-skin adventure of last winter on the ice.”

“Ah,” interrupted the American, “never shall I forget the evening that preceded that adventure.  It was then, dearest Julia, that I ventured to express the feeling with which you had inspired me.  It was then I had first the delight of hearing from your lips that I need not entirely despair.  I often, often, think of that night.”

“Of course you have not yet received my note, Ernest.  Perhaps you will deem it inconsiderate in me to have written, but I could not resist the desire to afford you what I conceived would be a gratification, by communicating intelligence of ourselves.”

“Note! what note! and by whom conveyed?”

“Have you not heard,” enquired Gertrude, warming into animation, “that the General has sent a flag this morning to Detroit, and, under its protection, two prisoners captured by my gallant cousin, who is the officer that conducts them.”

“And to that cousin you have confided the letter?” interrupted the Colonel, somewhat eagerly.

“No, not my cousin,” said Julia, “but to one I conceived better suited to the trust.  You must know that my father, with his usual hospitality, insisted on Major Montgomerie and his niece, the parties in question, taking up their abode with us during the short time they remained.”

“And to Miss Montgomerie you gave your letter,” hurriedly exclaimed the Colonel, starting to his feet, and exhibiting a countenance of extreme paleness.”

“Good heaven, Ernest! what is the matter?  Surely you do not think me guilty of imprudence in this affair.  I was anxious to write to you,—­I imagined you would be glad to hear from me, and thought that the niece of one of your officers would be the most suitable medium of communication.  I therefore confessed to her my secret, and requested her to take charge the letter.”