“Indeed, Miss Virginia,” said Alfred Bernard, without evincing the slightest mark of displeasure; “you urge this reconciliation too far. If Major Hansford have some secret cause of enmity or distrust towards me, of which I am ignorant, I beg that you will not force him to express a sentiment which his heart does not entertain. And as for his gratitude, which he seems to think that I demand, I assure you, that for any service which I may have done him, I am sufficiently compensated by my own consciousness of rectitude of purpose, and nobly rewarded by securing your approving smile.” “Nobly, generously said, Mr. Bernard,” replied Virginia, “and now I have indeed mistaken Mr. Hansford's character if he fail to make atonement for his backwardness, by a full, free, and cordial reconciliation.” “I must needs give you my left hand, then,” said Hansford, extending his hand with as much cordiality as he could assume; “my right arm is disabled as you perceive, by a wound inflicted by one of the enemies of my country, against whom it would seem it is treason to battle.” “Nay, if you go into that hateful subject again,” said Virginia, “I fear there is not much cordiality in your heart yet.” “Oh! you are mistaken, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, gaily; “you must remember the old adage, that the left is nearest to the heart. Believe me, Major Hansford and myself will be good friends yet, and when we hereafter shall speak of our former estrangement, it will only be to remember by whose gentle influence we were reconciled. But permit me to hope, Major, that your wound is not serious.” “A mere trifle, I believe, sir,” returned Hansford, “but I am afraid I will suffer some inconvenience from it for some time, as it is the sword arm; and in these troublous times it may fail me, when it should be prepared to defend.” “An that were the only use to which you would apply it,” said Virginia, half laughing, and half in earnest, “I would sincerely hope that it might never heal.” “Oh fear not but that it will soon heal,” said Bernard. “The most dangerous wounds are inflicted here,” laying his hand upon his heart; “a wound dealt not by a savage, but by an angel; not from the arrow of the ambushed Indian, but from the quiver of the mischievous little blind boy—and the more fatal, because we insanely delight to inflame the wound instead of seeking to cure it.” “Well really, Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, rallying the gay young euphuist, “the flowers of gallantry which you have brought from Windsor Court, thanks to your fostering care, flourish quite as sweetly in this wilderness of Windsor Hall. Take pity on an illiterate colonial girl, and tell me whether this is the language of Waller, Cowley or Dryden?”