The tone of deep melancholy with which Hansford uttered these words showed how painful had been the struggle through which he had passed. It had its effect, too, upon the heart of Virginia. She felt how cruel had been her language just before—how unjust had been her charge of inconstancy. She saw at once the fierce contest in Hansford's breast, in which duty had triumphed over love. Ingenuous as she ever was, she acknowledged her fault, and wept, and was forgiven. “And now,” said Hansford, more calmly, “my own Virginia—for I may still call you so—in thus severing forever the chain which has bound us, I do not renounce my love, nor the deep interest which I feel in your future destiny. I love you too dearly to wish that you should still love me; find elsewhere some one more worthy than I to fill your heart. Forget that you ever loved me; if you can, forget that you ever knew me. And yet, as a friend, let me warn you, with all the sincerity of my heart, to beware of Alfred Bernard.” “Of whom?” asked Virginia, in surprise. “Of that serpent, who, with gilded crest and subtle guile, would intrude into the garden of your heart,” continued Hansford, solemnly. “Why, Hansford,” said Virginia, “you scarcely know the young man of whom you speak. Like you, my friend, my affections are buried in the past. I can never love again. But yet I would not have you wrong with unjust suspicions one who has never done you wrong. On the contrary, even in my brief intercourse with him, his conduct towards you has been courteous and generous.” “How hard is it for innocence to suspect guile,” said Hansford. “My sweet girl, these very professions of generosity towards me, have but sealed my estimate of his character. For me he entertains the deadliest hate. Against me he has sworn the deadliest vengeance. I tell you, Virginia, that if ever kindly nature implanted an instinct in the human heart to warn it of approaching danger, she did so when first I looked upon that man. My subsequent knowledge of him but strengthened this intuition. Mild, insinuating, and artful, he is more to be feared than an open foe. I dread a villain when I see him smile.” “Hush! we are overheard,” said Virginia, trembling, and looking around, Hansford saw Arthur Hutchinson, the preacher, emerging from the shadow of an adjacent elm tree. “Young gentleman,” said Hutchinson, in his soft melodious voice, “I have heard unwillingly what perhaps I should not. He who would speak in the darkness of the night as you have spoken of an absent man, does not care to have many auditors.”