a yet deeper emotion: she said, in a voice whose usual sweetness was sweeter than ever, with its soothing and conciliating tone,—"There is one part of your garden, Mr. Pope, which I must entreat you to show me. I have a dear, kind, old uncle at home, who owes you many a delightful evening. He will never forgive me unless I write him word that I have seen
'The grapes long lingering on the sunny wall.'"
Pope took her hand mechanically, and led her forth; but the effort at self-control was too much for his weak frame. The drops stood on that pale, high brow which was the poetry of his face, and he leant against the railing. "No!" exclaimed he, passionately, after a few minutes' silence, "your courtesy, lady, cannot disguise from me that you, too, heard the insult of that heartless woman. Let me speak—I know I may trust your kindness; and, even if you turned into after ridicule the bitter outpouring of this moment's misery, you would but do as others, in whom I trusted, have done. My
