far above all earthly passion to enter into it, or understand it, and
the grief that must ever attend upon it."

He speaks bitterly. It seems to him that she is indeed cold not to
have guessed before this the intensity of his love for her. However
much she may have given her affection to another, it still seems to him
inexpressibly hard that she can have no pity for his suffering. He gazes
at her intently. Do the mystic moonbeams deceive him, or are there tears
in her great dark eyes? His heart beats quickly. Once again he remembers
her emotion of the past evening. He hears again her passionate sobs. Is
she unhappy? Are there thorns in her path that are difficult to remove?

"Florence, once again I entreat you to confide in me," he says, after a
pause.

"I can not," she returns, sadly but firmly. "But there is one thing I
must say to you--think of me as you may for saying it--I am not cold as
you seemed to imply a moment since; I am not made of stone; and, alas,
the grief you think me incapable of understanding is mine already! You
have wronged me in your thoughts. I have here," she exclaims with some
vehemence, laying the hand in which she still holds the drooping lily
upon her breast, "what I would gladly be without--a heart."

"Nay," says Adrian hastily; "you forget. It is no longer yours, you have
given it away."

For an instant she glances at him keenly, while her breath comes and
goes with painful quickness.

"You have no right to say so," she murmurs at last.