failure upon the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's place. "In a word," said the young lady, turning away as her temporary firmness forsook her, "there is a stain upon my name which the world visits on innocent heads: I will carry it into no blood but my own and the reproach shall rest alone on me."
"One word more, Rose—dear Rose, one more," cried Harry throwing himself before her. "If I had been less, less fortunate, as the world would call it,—if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny,—if I had been poor, sick, helpless,—would you have turned from me then? or has my probable advancement to riches and honour given this scruple birth?"
"Do not press me to reply," answered Rose. "The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, unkind, to urge it."
"If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is," retorted Harry, "it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the dreary path before me. It is not an