The young man thought as he spoke, with honest kindness and upright honour; it was a bitterer sacrifice than perhaps the reader thinks for. But Maltravers, if he had an impassioned, had not a selfish heart; and he felt, to use his own expression, more emphatic than eloquent, that “it would not do” to live any longer alone with this beautiful girl, like the two children whom the good Fairy kept safe from sin and the world in the Pavilion of Roses. But Alice comprehended neither the danger to herself nor the temptations that Maltravers, if he could not resist, desired to shun. She rose, pale and trembling--approached Maltravers and laid her hand gently on his arm. “I will go away, when and where you wish--the sooner the better--to-morrow--yes, to-morrow; you are ashamed of poor Alice; and it has been very silly in me to be so happy.” (She struggled with her emotion for a moment, and went on.) “You know Heaven can hear me, even when I am away from you, and when I know more I can pray better; and Heaven will bless you, sir, and make you happy, for I never can pray for anything else.” With these words she turned away, and walked proudly towards the door. But when she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked round, as if to take a last farewell. All the associations and memories of that beloved spot rushed upon her--she gasped for breath,--tottered,--and fell to the ground insensible. Maltravers was already by her side; he lifted her light weight in his arms; he uttered wild and impassioned exclamations--“Alice, beloved Alice--forgive me; we will never part!” He chafed her hands in his own, while her head lay on his bosom, and he kissed again and again those beautiful eyelids, till they opened slowly upon him, and the tender arms tightened round him involuntarily. “Alice,” he whispered--“Alice, dear Alice, I love thee.” Alas, it was true: he loved--and forgot all but that love. He was eighteen. CHAPTER VII. “How like a younker or a prodigal, The scarfed bark puts from her native bay!” _Merchant of Venice_.