Foiled in his attempts to obtain an interview with his mistress, Stanhope had found out the church which she attended, and thither he resorted every Sunday, to enjoy the happiness of at least, beholding, if he could not address her. It was not long before Ellen detected his presence, and the stolen glances they exchanged across the church, were mutual assurances of their unabated love. How Stanhope’s heart fluttered as he saw her enter the church, and move up the aisle to her father’s splendid pew. And if, perchance, when the family turned to depart, Ellen could, unobserved, give him a smile and a nod of recognition, how would he long to clasp the dear girl to his arms, and thank her for her kindness. Weeks passed in this manner, however, before the two lovers found an opportunity for an interview. At length one Sunday morning Ellen came alone. As Stanhope beheld her enter the door unattended, he could hardly contain himself in his seat, so great was his joy. The moment the service was over he hurried down stairs, and amid the crowd in the vestibule, with a beating heart, awaited her. Her agitation was scarcely less than his own, as he addressed her. A thousand eyes seemed to her fancy to be bent upon her, and she turned pale and trembled by turns. They had proceeded some distance down the street before either could speak more than the common words of salutation. At length Stanhope broke the silence. “Ellen, dear Ellen, do we meet at last?” he said, in a low tone, “oh! how can I describe the joy of this moment. Since we last parted what agony have I not endured: doubt, fear, hope, despair have all succeeded each other in my mind.” “How could you be so unjust?” said the sweet girl, reproachfully, “oh!” she thought to herself, “if he only knew what I have suffered for his sake.” “Pardon me, dear Ellen, but though I felt convinced of your truth, yet I knew not what false accusations might be made against me. It was that which troubled me. I never doubted you, believe me. But oh! you cannot know how terrible it is to be forever excluded from your presence. How often have I watched your window at night, hoping to catch even a glimpse of your shadow, and how long and hitherto how fruitlessly have I waited for this blessed opportunity, if only to assure you of my unabated love, and to ask if you are still my own Ellen. Answer me but once more, dearest: let me hear it from your own lips again.” The arm of Ellen trembled within her lover’s during this passionate address, and, as he continued, her agitation increased so visibly that when he ceased, and looking up into his face, she essayed to answer him, for a moment, she could not speak. At length she murmured brokenly. “Why do—you ask me—such a cruel question?” and giving her lover a look of mingled reproach and affection that dissolved him with tenderness, she continued, “you know I love you!” and overcome, by her emotions, and even forgetting her public situation, she burst into tears.