It was very pleasant--the bright morning, the picturesque glade, the warmth and brightness of summer all around. Beatrice looked at the handsome, pale face with emotion, she felt Hugh's warm lips pressed to her hand, she felt hot tears rain upon her fingers, and wondered at such love. Yes, this was the love she had read of and thought about. "Beatrice," cried Hugh, "do not undo me with one word. Say you love me, my darling--say I may return and claim you as my own. Your whole life shall be like one long, bright summer's day." She was carried away by the burning torrent of passionate words. With all her spirit and pride she felt weak and powerless before the mighty love of this strong man. Almost unconscious of what she did, Beatrice laid her white hands upon the dark, handsome head of her lover. "Hush, Hugh," she said, "you frighten me. I do love you; see, you tears wet my hand." It was not a very enthusiastic response, but it satisfied him. He clasped the young girl in his arms, and she did not resist; he kissed the proud lips and the flushed cheek. Beatrice Earle said no word; he was half frightened, half touched, and wholly subdued. "Now you are mine," cried Hugh--"mine, my own peerless one; nothing shall part us but death!" "Hush!" cried Beatrice, again shuddering as with cold fear. "That is a word I dislike and dread so much, Hugh--do not use it." "I will not," he replied; and then Beatrice forgot her fears. He was so happy--he loved her so dearly--he was so proud of winning her. She listened through the long hours of that sunny morning. It was the fifteenth of July--he made her note the day and in two years he would return to take her forever from the quiet house where her beauty and grace alike were buried. That was the view of the matter that had seized upon the girl's imagination. It was not so much love for Hugh--she liked him. His flattery--the excitement of meeting him--his love, had become necessary to her; but had any other means of escape from the monotony she hated presented itself, she would have availed herself of it quite as eagerly. Hugh was not so much a lover to her as a medium of escape from a life that daily became more and more unendurable. She listened with bright smiles when he told her that in two years he should return to fetch her; and she, thinking much of the romance, and little of the dishonor of concealment, told him how her sad young mother hated and dreaded all mention of love and lovers. "Then you must never tell her," he said--"leave that for me until I return. I shall have money then, and perhaps the command of a fine vessel. She will not refuse me when she knows how dearly I love you, and even should your father--the father you tell of--come home, you will be true to me, Beatrice, will you not?"