_II.--The Living and the Dead_


Oswald's natural irresolution had been augmented by misfortune, and he
hesitated before entering upon an irrevocable engagement. Although he no
longer sought to disguise his affection for Corinne, he did not propose
marriage to her. She, on her part, was mortified by his silence. Often
he was on the point of breaking it; but the thought of his father
restrained him--and the thought of Lucy Edgarmond, the English girl whom
his father had wished him to marry, when she was old enough, and whom he
had not seen since she was a child of twelve. What, he asked himself,
again and again, was his duty?

One day, as he was visiting her at her house at Tivoli, she took her
harp and sang one of those simple Scotch ballads, the notes of which
seemed fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. Oswald's heart was touched
at the memories thus awakened of his own country; his eyes filled with
tears.

"Ah, Corinne," he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could
you go with me there, and be the partner of my life?"

"Surely I could," she answered, "for I love you."

"In love's name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more
secrets from me."

"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald. I only ask that you require not my
story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the
support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must