mild, as could never have been expressed even by the most refined coquette; indeed all the arts of coquetry itself could never have equalled the effect of these pure and simple words.—“I shall think of you all night long,” I said, placing her beautiful hand upon my deeply agitated heart.
“And I too, shall think of you,” she replied smiling,—“you talk so sweetly, that I could listen to you for ever. It is already very late, and still I know not how the time has passed away; I know you not, and yet in the whole place there is not one I like to speak with as I do with you.”—
“Where and when, then, shall I see you again?” I asked.
“Alas,” she replied, “I know not. The people here,” continued she confidentially, “are so very curious. Surely, any one might have listened to our conversation, and yet should any person know that we have been here alone, what a stir it would create; although we have talked of nothing, save of death and of prayer, and the hope of a happier life on the other side of the grave!”—That I had, however, in the enthusiasm of my overwhelmed heart, told her, that she was the most charming girl I had ever beheld—that she appeared to me as an angel from heaven—that in her mild, though penetrating sloe-black eye there beamed an ocean of bliss—of all this the cunning girl mentioned not a single syllable.
“Well, then, where and when shall we see each other again?” I repeated earnestly.
“Leave that to fate, dear sir,” she replied, calming my agitated feelings, “if you wish and think half so well or so kindly of me, as I do of you, you will not, I am sure, desire that evil should be said or thought of me, and this I never could escape were I found alone with you.”—
“But, how then, leave it to fate?” I asked; and threw my arms around her, for the thought of soon being forced to leave this angelic creature, without a hope of seeing her again, seemed to contract my whole nerves together, even to my very arm, which, by an involuntary impulse, drew her ten-
