“I believe,” she added, trying to laugh, “it really was all I had heard about ‘Captain Montgomery, the gallant Captain Montgomery!’ which made me find it so difficult to imagine Edmund, who used to play with Frances and myself here in these woods, and the said terrible Captain fighting the French and destroying the Turks on the high seas, one and the same person!” “Ungentle employment, it must be confessed!” he replied, with a faint smile. “Oh—I don’t mean that,” said Julia, “I—But really, Edmund, I think,” she added, gravely, “I have made you apologies enough to restore any reasonable being to good humour.” “You make me apologies!” he commenced: but Julia, as she turned from him, with something of indignation at his supposed obstinacy, forgetting the narrow plank on which she stood, slipped her foot, and would certainly have fallen into the water had he not caught her in his arms, and lifted her to sure footing. Julia, partly from alarm, and partly from the previous exertion of her spirits in saying so much, was a good deal overcome, and even shed tears. The sight of these threw Edmund off his guard. “Would to heaven, Julia!” he exclaimed, “that I were indeed your brother! entitled to the happy privilege of guarding one more precious than life from every danger! of sheltering one dearer than happiness itself—from every sorrow!” Thunderstruck at his own rashness, he ceased. A smile through her tears was Julia’s reply; for, as she was not expecting, or thinking of a love speech, she understood from what had been said, only that friendship and good humour were restored, and Edmund become more like himself. A long silence, however, followed: when Julia at last said, in rather a hesitating manner, and at the same time with an effort at playfulness, “Frances and I have always called you brother, you know, can you not fancy yourself such, and take as good care of us as if you were really our brother?” This was a trying appeal; and the beating of Edmund’s heart, (closer to which he imperceptibly drew Julia’s arm as she spoke) shewed him that he must not trust himself with the use of language. Another silence, therefore, followed, and they walked slowly on. In a little time, Edmund, as if thinking aloud, gave, perhaps, unconscious utterance to what seemed to be the result of his meditations, saying: “No, no!—it cannot be required of me, to root out the permitted affections of childhood from my heart!—It were too impossible!—too unnatural!” “And who wishes you to do so?” asked his companion, with a quickness that shewed how little she understood his feelings.