were together; but no joy, nor even hope was on the countenance of
either. At first, Arthur had alluded to their hours of happy yet
unconfessed affection, when both had felt, intuitively, that they were
all in all to each other, though not a syllable of love had passed
their lips; on the sweet memories of those blissful hours, so brief,
so fleeting, but still Marie wept: the memory seemed anguish more than
joy. And then he spoke of returned affection, as avowed by her, when
his fond words had called it forth; and shuddered at the recollection
that that hour of acknowledged and mutual love, had proved the signal
of their separation. He referred again to her agonized words, that a
union was impossible, that she dared not wed him; it was sin even
to love him; that in the tumultuary, yet delicious emotions she had
experienced, she had forgotten, utterly forgotten in what it must
end--the agony of desolation for herself, and, if he so loved her, for
Stanley also--and again he conjured her to explain their meaning. They
had been separated, after that fearful interview, by a hasty summons
for him to rejoin his camp; and when he returned, she had vanished.
He could not trace either her or the friend with whom she had been
staying. Don Albert had indeed said, his wife had gone to one of the
southern cities, and his young guest returned to her father's home;
but where that home was, Don Albert had so effectually evaded, that
neither direct questionings nor wary caution could obtain reply. But
he had found her now; they had met once more, and oh, why need they
part again? Why might he not seek her father, and beseech his blessing
and consent?

His words were eloquent, his tone impassioned, and hard indeed the
struggle they occasioned. But Marie wavered not in the repetition
of the same miserable truth, under the impression of which they
had separated before. She conjured him to leave her, to forget the