She returned the pressure of his hand without affectation of reserve; but without the power to speak. “Heavens,” he continued, after a short pause, “that horrible certainty in which every sense has been spell-bound for the last twelve months of wretchedness, was then but a dream! Oh, Julia, how gladly do I awake from it!” Their eyes met as he spoke; nor were hers immediately withdrawn, though their lids trembled beneath the ardour of his gaze. The Julia and Edmund of former days seemed suddenly restored to each other after a long, long separation: each seemed to read the heart of the other, each wondered that they could have doubted the truth of the other. Both had been silent for some time. “Julia,” said Fitz-Ullin, at length, in a low, entreating voice, recollecting, though it must be confessed, without much alarm, that Julia, though she had denied having rejected him, had not yet said one word about accepting him, “how can I trust to the presumptuous hopes with which my heart now throbs—how can I dare to be thus happy till you have pronounced my fate, till you have actually said that you will be mine!” Julia replied only by a look. “I may then,” said Fitz-Ullin, in a low whisper, “speak to Lord L⸺, as authorised by you?” Julia breathed a very inaudible sort of a yes; and Fitz-Ullin, who, to hear the important monosyllable, had been obliged to venture his face into a very dangerous neighbourhood, expressed his delighted gratitude by as many demonstrations of the feelings that said little word of mighty consequences had inspired, as he dare well evince; but, as to what exactly he said or did on the occasion, it is by no means necessary to the development of our narrative to record. Julia no longer venturing to look up, her eyes rested, as a sort of excuse for looking down, on the open letter, which, having escaped from Fitz-Ullin’s hand, now lay on her knee. As she dwelt on the expressions it contained of passionate tenderness dictated by the pure enthusiasm of a First Love, the harrowing descriptions of poor Edmund’s struggles with his own heart, while he had believed himself an obscure and nameless being altogether unworthy of her, her tears flowed silently, except that such was the stillness of all else, that the fall of each on the paper might be distinctly heard. Fitz-Ullin watched her with inexpressible delight, fearing to breathe, lest he should interrupt her. At length, tempted by the tear, or the smile, or both, to see what parts of his letter so much affected her, he approached his face nearer the paper, (for he was still kneeling,) and read with her, adding emphasis to each tender expression by a gentle pressure of one, or both the hands he still held. “When did you write this letter, Edmund?” she at length asked.