lawn. There was a short struggle in her breast between woman's pride
and woman's love; the last conquered, and she joined him.

"Forgive me, Ernest," she said, extending her hand, "I was to blame."

Ernest kissed the fair hand, and answered touchingly:

"Florence, you have the power to wound me, be forbearing in its
exercise. Heaven knows that I would not, from the vain desire of
showing command over you, inflict upon you a single pang. Ah! do not
fancy that in lovers' quarrels there is any sweetness that compensates
the sting."

"I told you I was too exacting, Ernest. I told you you would not love
me so well when you knew me better."

"And were a false prophetess. Florence, every day, every hour I love
you more--better than I once thought I could."

"Then," cried this wayward girl, anxious to pain herself, "then once you
did not love me?"

"Florence, I will be candid--I did not. You are now rapidly obtaining
an empire over me, greater than my reason should allow. But, beware: if
my love be really a possession you desire,--beware how you arm my reason
against you. Florence, I am a proud man. My very consciousness of the
more splendid alliances you could form renders me less humble a lover
than you might find in others. I were not worthy of you if I were not
tenacious of my self-respect."