“Yes! she loves me,” he repeated, “she called me ‘sweet coz,’ and thanked me a ‘thousand times’—these were the very words—and she played so with Wyn, and said I sang better than ever. Yes! yes! I cannot be mistaken—she loves me, me only.” The page suddenly ceased, for he heard a rustling as of some one walking slowly up an adjacent path, separated from his own by a narrow belt of shrubbery. His heart fluttered, and the blood rushed into his cheek. He wanted nothing to tell him that the intruder was the lady Isabel. She was evidently reading something, though in a low voice, as if to herself. For a minute the page hesitated whether he should join her, but then he reflected that she could be perusing nothing that she would not wish him to hear, when something in her glad tones, something in the words she read, induced him, the next instant, to pause. The lady Isabel was apparently repeating a letter, but from whom? Did he dream? Could those terms of endearment be addressed to her? Was it her voice which lingered upon them in such apparent pleasure? She was now directly opposite to the page; not more than a few feet distant; and the sense which hitherto had only reached him in broken fragments, now came in continuous sentences to his ear. The letter ran thus: Dearest Isabel:—I write this in haste, and with a sad heart, for instead of being on my journey to see your sweet face once more, I am suddenly ordered back to Flanders with despatches for the commander in chief. You may judge of your Edward’s feelings, to have the cup of bliss thus dashed from his lips at the very moment when he had thought a disappointment impossible. Oh! if I knew that you still thought of me, love, as you once said with your own sweet lips that you did, I would depart with a lighter heart. God only knows when I shall see you. But the king’s messenger has come for me, and I must go. Farewell, dearest. I have kissed the paper over and over again. Farewell, again, and again. Here the words of the reader became once more undistinguishable; but had they continued audible, Lorraine could have heard no more. A fearful truth was breaking in upon him. His brain was like fire: his heart beat as if it would snap its bonds asunder. He staggered to a tree, for a faintness was coming over him. Big drops of agony rolled from his brow, and he placed his hand to his forehead, like one awaking from delirium. At length he found words for his woe. “No no, it cannot be,” he exclaimed “it was all a dream. Yes! it is too, too true. But I will not, cannot believe it, unless I hear it from her own lips,” and starting forward, with sudden energy, the page placed his hand upon the shrubbery, and pushing it aside with superhuman strength, he stood the next instant panting before his cousin.