and kissed away the tears that stood in those meek eyes.

"My sister, my Anne! Ah, trust in me, thou hast some secret, I know
it well,--I have long seen it. Is it possible that thou canst have
placed thy heart, thy pure love--Thou blushest! Ah, Anne! Anne! thou
canst not have loved beneath thee?"

"Nay," said Anne, with a spark of her ancestral fire lighting her meek
eyes through its tears, "not beneath me, but above. What do I say!
Isabel, ask me no more. Enough that it is a folly, a dream, and that
I could smile with pity at myself to think from what light causes love
and grief can spring."

"Above thee!" repeated Isabel, in amaze; "and who in England is above
the daughter of Earl Warwick? Not Richard of Gloucester? If so,
pardon my foolish tongue."

"No, not Richard,--though I feel kindly towards him, and his sweet
voice soothes me when I listen,--not Richard. Ask no more."

"Oh, Anne, speak, speak!--we are not both so wretched? Thou lovest
not Clarence? It is--it must be!"

"Canst thou think me so false and treacherous,--a heart pledged to
thee? Clarence! Oh, no!"

"But who then--who then?" said Isabel, still suspiciously. "Nay, if
thou wilt not speak, blame thyself if I must still wrong thee."

Thus appealed to, and wounded to the quick by Isabel's tone and eye,