"This Englishman is of thine own years, not far above thine own rank. Thou mayst share his thoughts in life — thou mayst sleep beside him in the same grave in death! And I — but that view of the future should concern us not. Look into thy heart, and thou wilt see that till again my shadow crossed thy path, there had grown up for this thine equal a pure and calm affection that would have ripened into love. Hast thou never pictured to thyself a home in which thy partner was thy young wooer?"
"Never!" said Viola, with sudden energy — "never, but to feel that such was not the fate ordained me. And, oh!" she continued, rising suddenly, and, putting aside the tresses that veiled her face, she fixed her eyes upon the questioner; "and, oh! whoever thou art that thus wouldst read my soul and shape my future, do not mistake the sentiment that, that" — (she faltered an instant, and went on with downcast eyes) — "that has fascinated my thoughts to thee. Do not think that I could nourish a love unsought and unreturned. It is not love that I feel for thee, stranger. Why should I? Thou hast never spoken to me but to admonish — and now, to wound!" Again she paused, again her voice faltered; the tears trembled on her eyelids; she brushed them away and resumed. "No, not love — if that be love which I have heard and read of, and sought to simulate on the stage, — but a more solemn, fearful, and, it seems to me, almost preternatural attraction, which makes me associate thee, waking or dreaming, with images that at once charm and awe. Thinkest
