Quietly yielding to his request, Virginia took her lover's arm, and they walked silently along the path, leaving the good dame Drummond to digest alone her crude notions about the prospects of Israel. “Is it not singular,” said Hansford at length, “that before you came, I thought the brief hour we must spend together was far too short to say half that I wish, and now I can say nothing. The quiet feeling of love, of pure and tranquil love, banishes every other thought from my heart.” “I fear—I fear,” murmured Virginia, “that I have done very wrong in consenting to this interview.” “And why, Virginia,” said her lover, “even the malefactor is permitted the poor privilege of bidding farewell forever to those around him—and am I worse than he?” “No, Hansford, no,” replied Virginia, “but to come thus with a perfect stranger, at night, and without my father's permission, to an interview with one who has met with his disapprobation—” “True love,” replied Hansford, sadly, “overleaps all such feeble barriers as these—where the happiness of the loved one is concerned.” “And, therefore, I came,” returned the young girl, “but you forget, Hansford, that the relation which once existed between us has, by our mutual consent, been dissolved—what then was proper cannot now be permitted.” “If such be the case,” replied Hansford, in an offended tone, “Miss Temple must be aware that I am the last person to urge her to continue in a course which her judgment disapproves. May I conduct you to your companion?” Virginia did not at first reply. The coldness of manner which she had assumed was far from being consonant with her real feelings, and the ingenuous girl could no longer continue the part which she attempted to represent. After a brief pause, the natural affection of her nature triumphed, and with the most artless frankness she said, “Oh, no, Hansford, my tongue can no longer speak other language than that which my heart dictates. Forgive me for what I have said. We cannot part thus.” “Thanks, my dearest girl,” he cried, “for this assurance. The future is already too dark, for the light of hope to be entirely withdrawn. These troublous times will soon be over, and then—” “Nay, Hansford,” said Virginia, interrupting him, “I fear you cannot even then hope for that happiness which you profess to anticipate in our union. These things I have thought of deeply and sorrowfully. Whatever may be the issue of this unnatural contest, to us the result must be the same. My father's prejudices—and without his consent, I would never yield my hand to any one—are so strong against your cause, that come what may, they can never be removed.” “He must himself, ere long, see the justice of our cause,” said Hansford, confidently. “It is impossible that truth can long be hid from one, who, like your noble father, must ever be desirous of its success.”