“Yes, from the bottom of my soul, do I forgive you, and yet, dearest, there is nothing to forgive, for how could it be otherwise, than that your poor and sorely tried heart should be subjected to wild imaginings inexplicable to yourself.  The ordeal to which you have been submitted, is a severe one, but I am sure your oppressed heart will be greatly lightened when you shall have been in possession of the truth connected with this most melancholy affair—­ your regard for me, will if possible, be even greater than before.  Pardon this seeming vanity.  I make the assertion because I know it will not a little console you, under this terrible infliction.”

It was a strange sight, that of these lovers, hitherto so devoted and now only temporarily half-doubting, talking of the fate of one parent while leaning over the apparent death-bed of the other.

“Ronayne, dear Ronayne, I am satisfied—­fully, wholly satisfied, and as you observe, the assurance which you have now given me, will form my chief support under this double affliction,” and she pointed, weeping, to her mother, whose scarcely perceptible breathing alone attested that she lived.

“Maria,” he said tenderly and gravely, as he took her hand in his, over the invalid—­“the hour of your promise is come—­the fate of your father is known—­would that it had been less abruptly revealed—­and were other inducement to keep it wanting, is it not to be found here?  But at this moment I will ask nothing which you may feel reluctance in granting.  To-morrow we will speak of this again—­to-morrow you shall know how much I have sought—­how much I have risked—­to soften the pang which I knew would, soon or late be inflicted on her whom I so love.”

“Generous—­kind—­considerate Ronayne, I can fully understand you, yet, ah! what must you think of me, who could for a moment doubt your power to explain every act of your life, however ambiguous in appearance.  But what is that paper you have taken from your pocket-book?”

“One that I have long designed for your perusal.  It was written a few days after the events at the farm, and I have since then frequently determined to place it in your hands in order that, in the sacredness of solitude, you might indulge in the bitter tears its few pages will wring from you; but too selfish—­yes, selfish, and severely am I punished for it—­to suffer the joy of the hour to be broken in upon by sadness, I have hitherto delayed putting you in possession of that which, if only communicated a day earlier, would have spared us this painful scene.  But I hear footsteps approaching.  They must be those of Mrs. Elmsley and the doctor, with Catherine.  Be not surprised, dearest, if I leave you soon after they enter, for I have something to do this evening which will require my presence in the Fort.  Early in the morning, however, I shall be here.”

“I understand well what demands your presence elsewhere,” she returned with a look of deep gratitude and love.  “Oh!  Ronayne, whatever may happen,” and the tears streamed down her pale face, as she pointed to her mother—­“hear me declare that whatever you may ask of me one month hence, I shall not consider myself justified in refusing.”