The raptures which Stevens expressed seemed to justify the embrace which followed it; and it was some moments before she again spoke. When she did the same subject was running in her mind. “Ah! Alfred, still I fear!” “Fear nothing, Margaret. It will be as I tell you--as I promise! If I deceive you, I deceive myself. Is it not for the wife of my bosom that I expect this homage?” Her murmurs were unheard. They strolled on--still deeper into the mazes of the forest, and the broad disk of the moon, suddenly gleaming, yellow, through the tops of the trees, surprised them in their wanderings. “How beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Let us sit here, dearest Margaret. The rock here is smooth and covered with the softest lichen. A perfect carpet of it is at our feet, and the brooklet makes the sweetest murmuring as it glides onward through the grove, telling all the while, like some silly schoolgirl, where you may look for it. See the little drops of moonlight falling here--and there in the small openings of the forest, and lying upon the greensward like so many scattered bits of silver. One might take it for fairy coin. And, do you note the soft breeze that seems to rise with the moon as from some Cytherean isle, breathing of love, love only--love never perishing!” “Ah! were it so, Alfred!” “Is it not, Margaret? If I could fancy that you would cease to love me or I you--could I think that these dear joys were to end--but no! no! let us not think of it. It is too sweet to believe, and the distrust seems as unholy as it is unwholesome. That bright soft planet seems to persuade to confidence as it inspires love. Do you not feel your heart soften in the moonlight, Margaret? your eye glistens, dearest--and your heart, I know, must be touched. It is--I feel its beating! What a tumult, dear Margaret, is here!” “Do not, do not!” she murmured, gently striving to disengage herself from his grasp. “No! no!--move not, dearest,” he replied in a subdued tone--a murmur most like hers. “Are we not happy? Is there anything, dear Margaret, which we could wish for?” “Nothing! nothing!” “Ah! what a blessed chance it was that brought me to these hills. I never lived till now. I had my joys, Margaret--my triumphs! I freely yield them to the past! I care for them no more! They are no longer joys or triumphs! Yes, Margaret you have changed my heart within me. Even fame which I so much worshipped is forgotten.” “Say not that; oh, say not that!” she exclaimed, but still in subdued accents. “I must--it is too far true. I could give up the shout of applause--the honor of popular favor--the voice of a people's approbation--the shining display and the golden honor--all, dear Margaret, sooner than part with you.” “But you need not give them up, Alfred.” “Ah, dearest, but I have no soul for them now. You are alone my soul, my saint--the one dear object, desire, and pride, and conquest.” “Alas! and have you not conquered, Alfred?”