other. The countenance of Miss Loring was of an ashen hue; her lips,
almost as pallid as her cheeks, stood arching apart, and her eyes
had the stare of one frightened by some fearful apparition.

"Miss Loring! pardon my folly! Your language made me bold to utter
what had else slept in my heart eternally silent. Forget this hour!"

"Never! Never!" and she struck her hands together wildly. Her voice
had in it a wail of suffering that sent a thrill to the heart of
Paul Hendrickson.

Then recollecting herself, she struggled for the mastery over her
feelings. He saw the struggle, and awaited the result. A brief
interval sufficed to restore a degree of self-possession.

"I have nothing then to hope?" said the young man. His tones were
evenly balanced.

"Too late! Too late!" she answered, in a hoarse voice. "The cup is
dashed to pieces at my feet, and the precious wine spilled!"

"Oh, speak not thus! Recall the words!" exclaimed Hendrickson,
reaching out his hands towards her.

But she moved back a pace or (sic) too repeating the sentence--

"Too late! Too late!"

"It is never too late!" urged the now almost desperate lover,
advancing towards the maiden.