Jameson muttered these words again and again; it seemed as if he thought by the sound of his voice to dispel the misgiving that lay at his heart. He would have given much for the security that his muttered words seemed to indicate, and as if determined not to leave the house without some further confirmation of his wishes, he lingered in the room till its only light flashed and went out in the socket of its tall silver candlestick, leaving him in total darkness. Then he stole forth and left the house, softly closing the street door after him. CHAPTER III. Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deemed, All that thy mien expressed, thy spirit seemed, My love had been devotion, till in death Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. * * * * * * * Had'st thou but died ere yet dishonor's cloud O'er that young heart had gathered as a shroud, I then had mourned thee proudly, and my grief In its own loftiness had found relief; A noble sorrow cherished to the last, When every meaner wo had long been past. Yes, let affection weep, no common tear She sheds when bending o'er an honored bier. Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this, To pangs that rend _my_ bosom had been bliss. MRS. HEMANS. Florence had been very ill, and a week after the scene in our last chapter Mr. Hurst removed her down to his old mansion-house on the Long Island shore. There the associations were less painful than at his town residence, where the sweetest years of her life had been spent in unrestrained association with the man who had so cruelly deceived her. The old mansion-house had witnessed only one fatal scene in the drama of her love; and here she consented to remain. Her father divided his time between her and the unpleasant duties that called him to town; and more than once he was forced to endure the presence of the man whose very look was poison to him, but after the distressing night when the error of his daughter was first made known, the noble old merchant had regained all his usual dignified calmness. No bursts of passion marked his interviews with the wretch who had wounded him, but firm and resolute he proceeded, step by step, in the course that his reason and will had at first deliberately marked out. In three days time Jameson was to depart for Europe, and forever. It was singular what power the merchant had obtained over his own strong passions; always grave and courteous, his demeanor had changed in nothing, save that toward his child there was more delicacy, more tender solicitude than she had ever received from him before, even in the days of her infancy. It seemed that in forgiving her fault, he had unlocked some hidden fount of tenderness which bedewed and softened his whole nature. Florence, who had always felt a little awe of her father when no act of hers existed to excite it, now that she had