The young man looked anxious, and his cheek flushed brilliantly as he spoke, for the moment his well regulated mind had lost its balance, and the passions of earth were strong within him. It was but for a moment; before Malina had time to reply, the flush died from his face. “No,” he added, with a sorrowful motion of the head, “it is wrong to ask, foolish to desire an interview—comfort her, Malina, say that which I cannot have permission to utter in her presence; say how deeply, how earnestly I have loved her, how weary I am of the world, how lonely my heart is now—say to her—alas! what message have I to send—I, who can scarcely turn my face heavenward, the clouds are so dark that lie heaped before me!” These words were uttered in a tone of such despondency that Malina once more lifted her eyes, and would have spoken words of encouragement which she was far from feeling, for her own wretchedness seemed completed in that of the beings she most loved; but, while her lips were parted, he made a sudden effort at composure, and saying that all might yet be well, in a broken and hurried voice, he drew Malina toward him and stooped to press his lips to her forehead, without seeming conscious of the act—but she was all too conscious, the blood rushed to her cheeks, and she trembled in his arms like a frightened child. He saw it not, for to his thought she was a sister only, and though his lips had pressed her forehead for the first time, he did not think of it, but mounted his horse and rode away before she had power to utter a word or make a gesture to detain him. He was gone forever, and she was alone—alone! how often is that word misapplied; the loving and the loved are never alone—but so it was with Malina Gray. CHAPTER IV. “In the cold, damp earth we laid her, When the forest cast its leaf, And we sighed, that one so beautiful Should have a lot so brief.” “So, Madam, you refuse—my boy is dying, and he yearns to look once more on the poor girl who would have been his wife in a single week.” It was but a few days after her interview with Mr. Mosier, that Malina heard these words issue from her mother’s parlor, as she was passing through the hall, from the chamber where she had just left Phebe striving to beguile her weary thoughts with a book. The door was ajar, and there was a power in the words which made her start and listen. It was a deep, manly voice, that of an aged person, but entreaty, tenderness and something almost like resentment, combined to render it startling and pathetic. Malina held her breath, and, drawing a step nearer, looked through the door.