I feel! As I know that you are never to be my husband, a sense of dreary loneliness steals over me."

"I, too, feel sadly; but the shadows will not remain long, the morning sun will chase them away."

"What will my poor father say? It will almost break his heart."

"Leave it to me. I know it will be a serious disappointment to him; but it will come out right in the end."

"I fear his displeasure.'

"You need not, if you will let me manage the whole affair. No blame shall fall on you."

"You are ever generous. But can I consent to let you suffer for me? No, no, Henri! You once perilled your own life to save mine; and, when I think of that noble act, I feel that I would marry you, did I love another with my whole heart!"

"There you are wrong. I simply did what you would do, if you had the opportunity."

"Perhaps so. But I will go to my father, this night,

and tell him all!"

"That you must not do. Your father is, most likely, in a sound sleep now, and he would not thank you for waking him at this time of night to hear a romantic love-story. I shall insist upon taking the matter into my own hands."

"Do as you think best; for your will is stronger than

mine. O, Henri! you would have thought, by my words in the Park to-night, that this scene would have relieved me of a burden, and made my heart light; and so I thought, but it was never so sad before. My hopes have so long centred in you, that now I feel alone!”

"Do not indulge in such feelings. Think of Er

nest!

"O, do not mention him! He does not love me."

"I believe he does, and you will soon learn the fact. Hereafter, we shall be as brother and sister to each other."

"I cannot comprehend it."

"You will, ere long; so think of the happy days in store for you."

I arose to depart. She looked at me with earnest, tearful eyes, and then sprang into my arms, with all the impetuosity of her nature, and hung weeping upon my neck. My tears were mingled with hers. That last love embrace was long and painful, in which were mingled sighs, tears and kisses. It was with difficulty that we tore ourselves apart. All our old feelings seemed to have concentrated into that moment, with three-fold power. I now wonder that we did not pledge ourselves anew. Had either mentioned it, I doubt not we should have done so. It was well that we did not. I felt the danger we were in, two such impulsive natures as ours, and I

took my hat and hastily fled from the house, leaving Irene weeping upon the sofa.

After I had retired to my bed, I had time to collect my thoughts; and I felt that we had done right, and soon every vestige of regret had fled, and I fell into a calm and refreshing slumber.

CHAPTER XVIII.

ERNEST BROWN.

THE ensuing morning, when I went into the shop, I found Ernest looking pale and dejected. When I bade him good-morning, in a light and happy tone of voice, he regarded me for a moment with a glance of bitter hatred.

I fixed my eyes upon him with a searching look, desiring to read his heart. If it was capable of harboring a mean and contemptible spirit of hatred towards one who had never sought to injure him, I did not wish Irene to become his bride. He quailed beneath my glance, his eyes cast upon the floor, as if ashamed of himself. At last he spoke.

"Your thoughts, in relation to me, Mr. Eaton, are not very complimentary, just now."

"Very true."

"You are candid, and I like you all the better for it. I fear I have given you some reason to doubt the sincerity of my friendship; so I shall not complain."

"I am glad you are sensible of it, and have the courage and manliness to confess it. I think better of you now."

"Thank you, and I will try never to give you cause to think evil of me again."

"Why did you give me such a look of scorn and contempt, when I greeted you with such a whole-hearted good-morning?"

"I cannot tell you." "Why not?"

"O, Henri! you can never know how intensely I suffer! For many months before you came to New York, I had a blissful waking dream, which now can never be realized!"

"Tell me the dream, for perchance I may interpret it." "The dream, and the radiant hopes it inspired me with so long, are locked in my own heart; and there shall they sleep undisturbed forever!"

These words were spoken slowly, in a low but passionate tone; his countenance clearly indicating the wild tumult which raged within his breast. I knew that sleep was not there. Hence I said,

"No, no! I would to God they would sleep,- die! but they will not!"

"It is possible," I said, "that I may have the key which will unlock that heart, and bring the dream to the light of day, and the hopes it inspired you with.”

"Do not taunt me," he said, fiercely, "or I may do what I shall be sorry for to the end of my life!"