distrusted by the reason.

"No more you have," he continued, "yet you know that love is often
suspicious of itself. I have watched with my eye your movements and
attitudes when you thought I was not observing you. My ear has followed
your voice through adjoining rooms when you thought I was listening to
other sounds. I have admired your words, without venturing the response
of admiration. Often I have wished to fold you in my arms when you
dreamt nothing of my inward thoughts. In short, Rachel, I have loved you
for years! Yes, I have enjoyed, or suffered, this gloating, yea,
delightful misery of the heart when it feeds upon its own secret
treasures, and trembles at the test which might dissolve the dream."

"And why this suppression and secrecy, Walter?" she asked. "How could
you know," she continued, as she held down her head, "that I would be
adverse to your wishes; nay, that I was not even in the same condition
as yourself?"

"Surely you do not mean to say that?" he cried, with something like the
rapture of one relieved by pleasure from pain. "I am not worthy even of
the suspicion that you speak according to the bidding of your heart.
Have I not watched your looks, and penetrated into your eyes, to
ascertain whether I might venture to know my fate, and yet never could
discover even the symptom of a return; and then was I not under a
conviction that your affections were engaged elsewhere?"

"Where?" asked Rachel, with a look of surprise.

"We are apparently drifting into confessions," responded he. "I may say
that I never could construe your visits to Paul, the ingenious artist,