“Julia!” I exclaimed, with a start which betrayed, I am sure, quite as much surprise as pleasure. My mood was singularly inflexible. My character was not easily shaken, and, once wrought upon by any leading influence, my mind preserved the tone which it acquired beneath it, long after the cause of provocation had been withdrawn. This earnestness of character--amounting to intensity--gave me an habitual sternness of look and expression, and I found it hard to acquire, of a sudden, that command of muscle which would permit me to mould the stubborn lineaments, at pleasure, to suit the moment. Not even where my heart was most deeply interested--thus aroused--could I look the feelings of the lover, which, nevertheless, were most truly the predominant ones within my bosom. “Julia,” I exclaimed, “I did not think to see you.” “Ah, Edward, did you wish it?” she replied in very mournful accents, gently reproachful, as she suffered me to take her hand in mine, and lead her back to the parlor in the basement story. I seated her upon the sofa, and took a place at her side. “Why should I not wish to see you, Julia? What should lead you to fancy now that I could wish otherwise?” “Alas!” she replied, “I know not what to think--I scarcely know what I say. I am very miserable. What is this they tell me? Can it be true, Edward, that you are acting against my father--that you are trying to bring him to shame and poverty?” I released her hand. I fixed my eyes keenly upon hers. “Julia, you have your instructions what to say. You are sent here for this. They have set you in waiting to meet me here, and speak things which you do not understand, and assert things which I know you can not believe.” “Edward, I believe YOU!” she exclaimed with emphasis, but with downcast eyes; “but it does not matter whether I was sent here, or sought you of my own free will. They tell me other things--there is more--but I have not the heart to say it, and it needs not much.” “If you believe me, Julia, it certainly does not need that you should repeat to me what is said of me by enemies, equally unjust to me, and hostile to themselves. Yet I can readily conjecture some things which they have told you. Did they not tell you that your hand had been proffered me, and that I had refused it?” She hung her head in silence. “You do not answer.” “Spare me; ask me not.” “Nay, tell me, Julia, that I may see how far you hold me worthy of your love, your confidence. Speak to me--have they not told you some such story?” “Something of this; but I did not heed it, Edward.” “Julia--nay!--did you not?” “And if I did, Edward--” “It surely was not to believe it?” “No! no! no! I had no fears of you--have none, dear Edward! I knew that it was not, could not be true.” “Julia, it was true!” “Ah!”