CHAPTER X.


"Coralie!" I cried, in surprise. "What is the matter? What are you
doing?"

She looked up at me, the fire of her eyes flashing through the mist of
tears.

"Don't scold me, Edgar; it is the fault of the music. It sent me here to
tell you how dearly I love you, and to ask from you one kind word."

I was terribly embarrassed. Could it be possible this beautiful woman
was confessing her love for me?

"Do not judge me hastily," she said. "I am not like the fair, cold girls
of this northern clime. My father had Spanish blood in his veins, and
some of it flows in mine. My music went deep into my heart, and my heart
cried aloud for one kind word from you."

"Am I not always kind, Coralie?"

"Ah, yes, with that cold, English kindness which kills even sooner than
your keen frost and biting winds. I want something more than this cruel
kindness. Oh, cousin, can you not see I love you? I love you--ah,
heaven, how dearly!--and I want your love in return."

Believe me, reader, I was speechless. I would fain have raised her, have