“Albert,” said the new comer, as the youth, seizing her hand, passionately kissed it, “I have not a second to stay. It was with difficulty I could leave the house unseen, and my absence has doubtless been noticed before this; what we have to say, therefore, must be said at once; why have you sought this interview?” “I have sought it, Ellen,” he replied, still holding her hand, “because, despairing of gaining your consent, I have volunteered in Capt. Washington’s cavalry corps, and to-morrow set forth. Perhaps you will never see me more. I could not leave the neighborhood without seeing you once more, and bidding you an eternal farewell; and, as your father’s orders had banished me from the house, there was no method of giving you my adieux except by soliciting an interview.” The tears had started to the eyes of his listener, but she turned away her head to conceal them; and for some time neither spoke. “Ellen, dear Ellen,” said the young soldier, earnestly, “will you not now, in this solemn moment, say you love me? I once hoped you did, but since your father has forbidden me the house, you have been less kind; and I fear that I have lost your heart—that you, too, have ceased to care for me, now that I am beggared—” His hearer suddenly turned her face full upon him, with a look of tearful reproach that cut short his words. “Bless you, Ellen, for that look,” he said. “Though my father’s estate is confiscated, and he and I both indigent, it is not on that account that you have seemed so cold to me lately. Say then, dearest, only say that I have been mistaken in thinking you at all altered.” Another look, equally eloquent, answered him; but still his hearer did not speak. “Oh! Ellen,” he continued, “when I am far away fighting my country’s battles, what bliss it would be to know that you sometimes think of me; and that if I should fall, you would shed a tear for me.” His listener, at these words, wept freely, and when her agitation had somewhat passed, spoke. “Albert,” she said, “you have conquered. Know then that I do love you.” At these words the impetuous young man clasped her in his arms, but she disengaged herself, saying, “But, while my father opposes your suit, I can never be yours. The consciousness of his disapproval has made me affect a coldness to you which my heart belied, in the hope that you would think of some one more worthy of you—but—but,” she hesitated, then quickly added, “in a word, if it will comfort you, when away, to know that I think of you, and pray for you, go forth happy—the misery is for us who stay behind, and who are hourly anxious for the fate of the absent.” The tears fell fast as she spoke, and, concluding, she suffered her head to be drawn to her lover’s shoulder, while a deep and holy silence succeeded, as these two young and already unhappy beings held each other in a first embrace.