and then she melted into tears. She had not wept during the history: what was there in the name of its hero more affecting than the recital itself!"--"She wept?" repeated Oswald. "Ah, why was I not there?" then instantly checking himself, he cast down his eyes, and his manly face expressed the most delicate timidity. He hurriedly resumed the topic, lest d'Erfeuil should impair his sacred joy by one comment. "If the adventure at Ancona be worth the telling, its honor belongs to you, also, my dear Count."--"They certainly did speak of a most engaging Frenchman, who was with you, my Lord," rejoined d'Erfeuil, laughing; "but no one, save myself, paid any attention to that parenthesis. The lovely Corinne prefers you, doubtless believing that you would prove more faithful than I--this may not be the case--you may even cost her more pains than I should have done; but your very romantic women love trouble, therefore you will suit her exactly." Nevil smarted beneath each word; but what could he say? D'Erfeuil never argued; nay, he could not even listen with sufficient attention to alter his opinions: once uttered, he cared no more about them, and the best plan was to forget them, if possible, as quickly as he did himself. CHAPTER III. That evening Oswald reached the house of Corinne with entirely new sensations. He fancied that he might be expected. How entrancing that first beam of intelligence between one's self and the being we adore! ere memory contends the heart with hope, ere the eloquence of words has sought to depict our feelings. There is, in these first hours of love, some indefinite and mysterious charm, more fleeting, but more heavenly than even happiness itself.