“Is it possible! do you not deceive me?” said Fitzhenry, eagerly, a faint smile playing on his lips as he turned towards Emmeline. But she still, doubting her happiness, remained immoveable. “What, Emmeline!” said he, “cannot you forgive me?” At that name, at those words, all fear forsook her; he held out to her his feeble arms, and she rushed to his heart; his head fell on her bosom; and, overcome with his feelings, he wept like a child. In a few minutes, he recovered himself, and gazing in her face, their eyes met. Oh! who can describe the happiness of that moment? Emmeline read affection in those eyes which she had never before dared to encounter; and when Fitzhenry again pressed her to his heart, and, half timidly, kissed her burning cheek,—at that minute she almost could have wished to breathe her last, so perfect was her bliss. Such emotion, however, was not good for the invalid; and Pelham forced Emmeline for a time to leave the room, till she had recovered the power to endure her happiness with composure. When she returned, she again took her station, in silence, by his bed-side. Fitzhenry seized her hand, held it in both of his, but spoke not. One minute, one look, however, had sufficed to open their hearts to each other; no explanation was necessary; indeed, Emmeline would have been fearful of breaking the dream of felicity in which she now lived, by one word recalling the past. Fitzhenry now daily seemed to gain strength. Occasionally, a short cough, which the physicians pronounced to be nervous, tormented him by disturbing his rest; but his eyes looked less languid. At times, some colour returned to his cheeks; and, supported by cushions, he could now sit up on a couch. And what a delight it was to Emmeline to wait upon him, to watch and prevent his wishes; to smooth his pillow, and receive in return a smile of kindness and gratitude! Sometimes, however, a cloud would darken her present happiness. If Fitzhenry was more than usually silent or thoughtful, (and he now often fell into long fits of deep abstraction,) then her jealous fancy pictured to her that his thoughts and affections were wandering back to Lady Florence. When he talked of England, of his wish to return home, again she took alarm; and, in spite of herself, interpreted his anxiety on the subject into the desire again to be in the same country with her rival—perhaps, indeed, again to return to her chains. Lady Florence had never yet been in any way alluded to—Fitzhenry seemed to shun the subject as much as Emmeline; so that she hardly knew her fate, hardly knew by how strong, or how feeble a tenure she held her present felicity. One day, however, he suddenly seemed to summon courage for some sort of explanation between them. Emmeline had, as usual, been arranging his sofa. Her hand still lingered on the pillow which supported him; and, after gazing on it a minute, he seized it, and looking attentively on her wedding-ring—