There had been a long, silent pause, after some words of common courtesy; a pause such as takes place when people feel and know that they are upon the eve of things which may affect their whole future life. Arabella was anxious to say something upon matters totally indifferent to them both; but, busy with deeper thoughts, could find no such indifferent topic. Seymour, on the contrary, longed to talk of thoughts and feelings which had rested in his heart unchanged since last he saw her, but hesitated how to begin, lest the very first word should alarm her. At length, however, Arabella spoke, for she felt that such long silence might seem to have more meaning than any words. "It is nearly two years, I think," she said, "since you went to Flanders?" "Fully," he replied; "and a long, dull time it has been." "Nay," answered the lady, "I think that, were I a young man, nothing I should like so much as seeing foreign lands and mingling with strange people. There must be a great delight in watching all their habits, and in the adventures one meets with amongst them." "When the heart is at ease," replied William Seymour; "but mine was not so." "Indeed!" said Arabella, fixing her eyes upon him. "I should have thought no heart more light." "Truly, then, you have never seen it," rejoined the young gentleman, "for it is often heavy enough." "I grieve to hear it," replied the lady, with a look of interest; and then in a gayer tone she added, with that attraction towards dangerous subjects which is to woman as the light to the moth, "Come, what is it weighs it down? Make me your father confessor. Woman's wit will often find a way to attain that which man's wisdom fails to reach." "Well then, I will," said William Seymour. "I could not have a fairer confessor, nor one who has more right to assign the penance for my sins. Lady, my heart is heavy, from an hereditary disease, which has caused much mischief and much grief amongst my race already. You may probably have heard of it." "Nay, never," answered Arabella, with real astonishment. "I always thought the very name of Seymour implied health and strength, and long life.--What is this sad malady?" "That of loving above our station," replied William Seymour; and instantly her face became deadly pale, her frame trembled, and her eyes sought the ground. He proceeded, however. "This sad ambition," he said, "cost my grandfather nine years' imprisonment, and well nigh his head; but he, as you well know, little cared or sorrowed for what he had suffered, though grieved deeply for the sweet lady on whom their mutual love had brought so severe a punishment."