“No, no! Alfred--this must not be. I am yours. Let me prove to you that I am firm enough to protect your rights from invasion.” “But why so coy, dearest? Do you doubt me?” “Heaven forbid!” “Ah! but you do. Why do you shrink from me--why this coldness? If you are mine, if these charms are mine, why not yield them to me? I fear, Margaret, that you doubt me still?” “I do not--dare not doubt you, Alfred Stevens. My life hangs upon this faith.” “Why so cold, then?” “I am not cold. I love you--I will be your wife; and never was wife more faithful, more devoted, than I will be to you; but, if you knew the dreadful agony which I have felt, since that sad moment of my weakness, you would forbear and pity me.” “Hear me, Margaret; to-morrow is Saturday. John Cross is to be here in the evening. He shall marry us on Sunday. Are you willing?” “Oh, yes! thankful, happy! Ah! Alfred, why did I distrust you for an instant?” “Why, indeed! But you distrust me no longer--you have no more misgivings?” “No, none!” “You will be no longer cold, no longer coy, dear Margaret--here in the sweet evening, among these pleasant shades, love, alone, has supremacy. Here, in the words of one of your favorites:-- “'Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god--'” concluding this quotation, he would have taken her in his embrace--he would have renewed those dangerous endearments which had already proved so fatal; but she repulsed the offered tenderness, firmly, but with gentleness. “Margaret, you still doubt me,” he exclaimed reproachfully. “No, Alfred, I doubt you not. I believe you. I have only been too ready and willing to believe you. Ah! have you not had sufficient proof of this? Leave me the consciousness of virtue--the feeling of strength still to assert it, now that my eyes are open to my previous weakness.” “But there is no reason to be so cold. Remember you are mine by every tie of the heart--another day will make you wholly mine. Surely, there is no need for this frigid bearing. No, no! you doubt--you do not believe me, Margaret!” “If I did not believe you, Alfred Stevens,” she answered gravely, “my prayer would be for death, and I should find it. These woods which have witnessed my fault should have witnessed my expiation. The homes which have known me should know me no more.” The solemnity of her manner rather impressed him, but having no real regard for her, he was unwilling to be baffled in his true desires. “If you doubt me not--if you have faith in me, Margaret, why this solemnity, this reserve? Prove to me, by your looks, by your actions, by the dear glances, the sweet murmurs, and the fond embrace, what these cold assurances do not say.” His hand rested on her neck. She gently raised and removed it.