The artificial day that reigned around, the excess of brilliancy resembling enchantment, the very intensity of light, seemed, if not literally shelter, at least security from sudden intrusion, by giving proof at once that none were near, and certainty that none could approach unseen. “I wonder,” mentally ejaculated Julia, who by this time had renewed her meditations, “why she did not look happy!” She paused, and a tear or two fell. “Is it possible that he can love a stranger better than those he has loved all his life?” she thought, and a feeling of something like reproach passed through her mind. Then came a series of kindly recollections, making it very difficult to believe that this could be the case. Then she called to mind, how Edmund always used to say, he never would marry; and how she, too, had determined never to marry. She reflected on this subject for some time; then asked herself a question, but very vaguely indeed; for she did not venture to give it the form of words, even in thought: the purport, however, was as follows:—if Edmund had ever said, that to be married to her was absolutely necessary to his happiness—what would have been her reply? A deep blush was all the answer she gave herself. She sat, unconscious of outward objects, till she felt her hand softly taken. She started, and looked up: Edmund stood before her. “Dearest Julia!” he said, “there has so evidently been some anxiety on your mind, some depression on your spirits, all this day, that I cannot resist taking, perhaps, an unwarrantable liberty, and entreating you to tell me what it is that thus distresses you?” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, and made no reply. “Did you not promise,” he continued, “to permit me to call myself your friend, your brother? and is not confidence the privilege of friendship?” And he seated himself beside her, still retaining the hand he had taken. “I don’t wish, Edmund,” she said, her face averted, “to hear you talk like a stranger about taking the liberty, and all that kind of thing: it only makes me more unhappy.” “More unhappy!” he repeated. “But, you know,” she continued, “when you wished so very much for my friendship, Edmund, it was when you first came home; now—you will probably—be—everyday—making so many new friends—that—perhaps—” “New friends!” cried Edmund.—Then, quite thrown off his guard, he added passionately; “what are all the new friends—nay, all the friends the world contains—what the whole world itself to me, in comparison of you, Julia! My earliest, my kindest friend?” he added hastily, fearful he had gone too far.