her company was no longer prized and eagerly sought after, as it had formerly been, but was often rather shunned and avoided.
With the recollection of this sorrowful look bracing her mind and strengthening her purpose, Mary one day sought her lover, firm in her determination of putting an mi to their present mode of intercourse.
"Frederick," she said, placing her hand gently and timidly in his, as he used every persuasion and entreaty to induce her to alter her resolve—"Frederick, seek no more to shake my resolution. You have succeeded in doing so before, but now it is in vain that you attempt it; our interviews must cease. But," she continued, kindly, "it will only be for a time, Frederick; when you are happily enabled to throw off this concealment, we shall be able to meet again, without this oppressive consciousness that we are acting wrongly and dishonourably."
"But," he cried, "how far off that time may be! It may be months, it may be years, before I find myself free; and if you refuse to see me, I cannot remain here. I could not bear to visit the places where we have wandered together, and to feel myself alone; every tree, every leaf, would remind me that you were lost to me. And when I see you again, you will be changed; some other will have filled your heart, and I shall be forgotten, or remembered only as the object of a girlish folly. No, Mary, if you indeed love me as you profess, revoke your cold determination, and let us once more be happy in each other, forgetful of aught else. Say, shall it not be so?"
"No," replied Mary; "that can never be."
"Then you are resolved?"
"I am."
Mary looked into her lover’s face, and, terrified at the fierce gleam which shot from his eyes, stood in the trembling expectation of some violent outbreak of passion; but whatever his feelings might have been, he mastered them by a powerful effort, and said, in a tone of almost melancholy softness, "Then you care not for me. I have been an amusement, a pastime, a thing to be thrown aside when it was no longer exactly convenient to keep it. Come, confess it; fear not to speak the truth—I shall not reproach you."
"No," replied Mary, "I have no such confession to make; 1 love you truly and sincerely. Were it not for the dictates of honour, virtue, and religion, I could almost be to you as you say; but that must not be. Should we not meet again for years or forever, you alone will always occupy my heart. One consolation will remain to me in your absence—I shall ever have the fullest confidence in your love. Should I ever have cause to doubt that, my heart, I am sure, would break."
"Then," he said, "if such are indeed your sentiments towards me, do not refuse me one favour; it is the last, perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you. Think over the matter again, and to-morrow evening meet me here, once more, at an hour after sunset. Do not deny me this."
"Once more, then," said Mary, "I will come; but it must be the lost time. Till then, farewell!"
