“You are ill,” she cried, in tones of affectionate anxiety; “you must be ill, or you would never speak so strangely, so unkindly; or is it only that you are overdone with watching by that poor youth’s sick bed? Yet no, no, that can never be, you who are so strong and so hardy. What is it, dearest cousin? Tell me, what is it makes you speak so wildly—would that you _were_ dear to me! why, if not you, _you_ and my good, kind father, who on the face of the wide earth is dear to poor Theresa! That you were dear to any one! You, whom my father looks upon and loves as his own son; you, whose companions hold you as almost more than mortal—for have I not marked the inscriptions on your sabre’s guard, and on the telescope they gave you? You, who have saved the lives of so many fellow mortals; you, to whom those ladies, rescued at Darien from the bloodthirsty Spaniards, addressed such glowing words of gratitude and love; you, cousin Durzil, _you_, who are so great, so brave, so wise, so skillful, and above all, so generous and kind; _you_ talk of wishing you were dear to any one! Good sooth! you must be dreaming, or you are bewitched, gentle Durzil.” “If I be,” he replied with a smile, for her high spirits and gay enthusiasm aroused him from his gloomier thoughts, and began to enkindle brighter hopes in his bosom, “if I be, thou, Theresa, art the enchantress who has done it.” “Ay! now you are more like yourself; but tell me,” she said, caressingly, “what was it made you sad and dark but now?” “Only this, dear Theresa, that I am again about to leave you.” “To leave us—to leave us so soon and so suddenly. Why you have been here but three little weeks, which have passed like so many days, and when you came you said that you would stay with us till autumn. Oh, dear! my father will be so grieved at your going. You do not know, you do not dream how much he loves you, Durzil. He is a different person altogether when you are at home—so much gayer, and more sociable! Oh! wherefore must you leave us so quickly, and after so long an absence, too, as your last? Oh, truly, it is unkind, Durzil.” “And you, Theresa, shall you be sorry?” “I will not answer you,” she replied, half petulantly, half tearfully. “It is unkind of you to go, and doubly unkind of you to speak to me thus. What have I done to you now, what have I ever done to you, that you should doubt my being sorry. Are not you the only friend, the only companion I have got in the wide world? Are you not as near and dear to me, as if you were my own brother? Do not I love you as my brother, even as my father loves you as his son? Ah, Durzil! if you are never less loved than you are by poor Theresa Allan, you will ne’er need to complain for lack of loving.” And she burst into tears as she ended her rapid speech; for she did not comprehend in the least at what he was aiming, and her innocent and artless heart was wounded by what she fancied to be a doubt of her affection.