“I know—I know,” said the girl, suddenly blushing very deeply, “that you are every thing that is good and great; every thing that men ought to admire and women to love, and yet—” “And yet you cannot love me. Well, think no more of that, Theresa. Forget—” “Never! never!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands eagerly together. “I never can forget what you have made me feel, what I must have made you _suffer_ this day.” “Well, if it be so, remember it, Theresa; but remember it only thus. That if you have quenched my love, if you destroyed my hope, you have but added to my regard, to my affection. Promise me that whereever you may be, however, or with whomsoever your lot shall be cast, you will always remember me as your friend, your brother; you will always call on me at your slightest need, as on one who would shed his heart’s blood to win you a moment’s happiness.” “I will—I will,” she cried affectionately, fervently. “On whom else should I call. And God only knows,” she added, mournfully, “how soon I shall need a protector. But will you,” she continued, catching both his hands in her own, “will you be happy, Durzil?” “I will,” he replied, firmly, returning the gentle pressure, “I will, at least in so far as it rests with man to be so, in despite of fortune. But mark me, dear Theresa, if you would have me be so, you can even yet do much toward rendering me so.” “Can I—then tell me, tell me how, and it is done already.” “By letting me see that _you_ are happy.” “Alas!” and again she clasped her hand hard over her heart, as if to still its violent beating. “Alas! Durzil.” “And why, alas! Theresa?” “Can we be happy at our own will?” “Independently of great woes, great calamities, which we may not control, which are sent to us for wise ends from above—surely, I say, surely we can.” “And can you, Durzil?” “Theresa, _this_ is to me a great wo—yea, a great calamity; and yet I reply, ay! after a time, after the bitterness shall be overpast, I can, and more, I will. Much more, then, can you, who have never felt, who I trust and believe will never meet any such wo or grief—much more can you be happy. Wherefore should you not, foolish child—have you not been happy hitherto? What have you, that you should not be happy now?” “Nothing,” she replied, faintly. “I have nothing why I should be unhappy, unless it be, if I have made you so.” “Theresa, you have not—you shall see that you have not—made me unhappy.” “And yet, Durzil, yet I feel a foreboding that I shall be, that I must be unhappy. A want—I feel a want of something here.” “You are excited, agitated now; all this has been too much for your spirits, for your nerves; and I think, Theresa, I am sure that you are too much alone—you think, or rather you muse and dream, which are not healthy modes of thinking—too much in solitude. I will speak to my uncle about that before I go—” “Before you go!” she interrupted him, quickly. “Go, whither?” “To sea. To my ship, Theresa.”