“Ronayne, you know—­you must have known—­your whole conduct throughout this affair, proves you must have known of my poor father’s death, and of his rude—­almost insulting burial in that fatal spot.  How he came hither, you best can tell.  Oh!  Harry, it is very cruel thus to have reposed the confidence of the entire soul, and then to have been disappointed.  This cruel discovery will be the means of destroying my peace forever, unless you give the explanation which alone can restore our confidence in each other—­yet how can I, with these glaring truths before my eyes, expect that you will?”

“Insulting burial! oh, Maria, I feel that I never loved you more than now when you would break my heart with this unkindness.”  He bent his head upon the same pillow, upon which reclined the unconscious head of the mother of the woman whom he so ardently loved, and wept tears of bitterness and sorrow.

“I cannot stand this, Ronayne, dear Ronayne, whatever you be—­whatever you may have done, I love you with all the ardor of the most devoted soul!  But,” she continued, more composedly, “forgive me, if my feelings and my judgment are at issue.  One question I must ask, cost what it may, for I cannot longer endure this agony of suspense —­no, for your sake I cannot endure it.  How is it that you have always made a secret—­a mystery even to me, of the motive of your absence on that fatal night succeeding the massacre at the firm.”

“Dear Maria.  I can well forgive the question in the excitement which must have been produced in you by the startling events of this evening.”

“Ronayne,” she mournfully interrupted—­“your sudden interference with the dog—­your struggle with him—­nay, your very manner of speaking now, convince me that you knew my father lay buried beneath that rose-tree.  In candor, answer me.  Yes or no.”

“And, admitting I had had that knowledge, Maria—­can you imagine no good reason for my forbearing all allusion to the subject?”

“Yet, why conceal the fact from one who had supposed you could have no concealment from her—­and then again, how am I to reconcile the circumstance of my poor father having been reported to be a prisoner—­a report which, sanctioned by yourself, left me not utterly hopeless—­and the fact of his burial here—­evidently with your knowledge.”

“Maria,” returned Ronayne, impressively, and with an expression of much pain at the remark, “as I have already said, I can make every allowance, in recollection of the painful scene of which I have, in some degree, been the cause, but is it generous—­is it quite appreciating my character and my feelings towards yourself, to doubt that I had intended from the first, and at a fitting moment, to explain every thing to you?”

Again was the confidence of the generous girl established, and with almost passionate warmth, she exclaimed.  “Oh!  Ronayne, forgive—­forgive me, but this melancholy—­this harrowing occurrence has made me so far not myself—­that I almost hate myself.  Tell me, dear Ronayne, do you forgive me?”