"Oh, Mr. Regulus!" said I, when I at last liberated my imprisoned voice, "you honor me too much. I never dreamed of such a,--such a distinction. I am not worthy of it,--indeed I am not. It makes me very unhappy to think of your cherishing such feelings for me, who have looked up to you so long with so much veneration and respect. I will always esteem and revere you, dear Mr. Regulus,--always think of you with gratitude and affection; but do not, I entreat you, ever allude again to any other sentiment. You do not know how very miserable it makes me." I tried to express myself in the gentlest manner possible, but the poor man had lost all command of his feelings. He had confined them in his breast so long, that the moment he released them, they swelled and rose like the genius liberated from the chest of the fisherman, and refused to return to the prison-house they had quitted. His brows contracted, his lips quivered, and turning aside with a spasmodic gesture, he covered his face with his handkerchief. I could not bear this,--it quite broke my heart. I felt as remorseful as if every tear he was hiding was a drop of blood. Walking hastily to him, and laying my hand on his arm, I exclaimed,-- "Don't, my dear master!" and burst into tears myself. How foolish we must have appeared to a bystander, who knew the cause of our tears,--one weeping that he loved too well, the other that she could not love in return. How ridiculous to an uninterested person would that tall, awkward, grave man seem, in love with a young girl so much his junior, so childlike and so unconscious of the influence she had acquired. "How foolish this is!" cried he, as if participating in these sentiments. Then removing the handkerchief from his face, he ran his fingers vigorously through his hair, till it stood up frantically round his brow, drew the sleeves of his coat strenuously over his wrists, and straightening himself to his tall height, seemed resolved to be a man once more. I smiled afterwards, when I recollected his figure; but I did not then,--thank heaven, I did not smile then,--I would not have done it for "the crown the Bourbons lost." Anxious to close a scene so painful, I approached the door though with a lingering, hesitating step. I wanted to say something, but knew not what to utter. "You will let me be your friend still," said he, taking my hand in both his. "You will not think worse of me, for a weakness which has so much to excuse it. And, Gabriella, my dear child, should the time ever come, when you need a friend and counsellor, should the sky so bright now be darkened with clouds, remember there is one who would willingly die to save you from sorrow or evil. Will you remember this?" "Oh, Mr. Regulus, how could I forget it?"