“Indeed, my dear Miss Temple, if such you can only be to me,” said her wily lover, “I do respect from my heart your constancy to your first love. That unwavering devotion to another, whom I esteem, because he is loved by you, only makes you more worthy to be won. May I not still hope that time may supply the niche, made vacant in your heart, by another whose whole life shall be devoted to the one object of making you happy?” “Mr. Bernard, candour compels me to say no, my friend; there are vows which even time, with its destroying hand can never erase, and which are rendered stronger and more sacred by the very circumstances which prevent their accomplishment. Fate, my friend, may interpose her stern decree and forever separate me from the presence of Mr. Hansford, but my heart is still unchangeably his. Ha! what is that?” she added, with a faint scream, as from the little summer-house, which we have before described, there came a deep, prolonged groan. As she spoke, and as Bernard laid his hand upon his sword to avenge himself upon the intruder, a dark figure issued from the door of the arbor, and stood before them. The young man stood appalled as he recognized by the uncertain light of a neighbouring lamp, the dark, swarthy features of Master Hutchinson, the chaplain of the Governor. “Put up your sword, young man,” said the preacher, gravely; “they who use the sword shall perish by the sword.” “In the devil's name,” cried Bernard, forgetful of the presence of Virginia, “how came you here?” “Not to act the spy at least,” said Hutchinson, “such is not my character. Suffice it to say, that I came as you did, to enjoy this fresh air—and sought the quiet of this arbour to be free from the intrusion of others. I have lived too long to care for the frivolities which I have heard, and your secret is safe in my breast—a repository of many a darker confidence than that.” With these words the bent form of the melancholy preacher passed out of their sight. “A singular man,” said Bernard, in a troubled voice, “but entirely innocent in his conduct. An abstracted book-worm, he moves through the world like a stranger in it. Will you return now?” “Thank you,” said Virginia, “most willingly—for I confess my nerves are a little unstrung by the fright I received. And now, my friend, pardon me for referring to what has passed, but you will still be my friend, won't you?” “Oh, certainly,” said Bernard, in an abstracted manner. “I wonder,” he muttered “what he could have meant by that hideous groan?” And sadly and silently the rejected lover and his unhappy companion returned to the heartless throng, who still lit up the palace with their hollow smiles.