Don’t be too positive of that, exclaimed a voice behind him. Your uncle and aunt have some rights to assert in this matter. You are too despondent. Cast off those gloomy feelings and look forward to sunshine and happiness. Although you have lived in obscurity, you are of noble blood. The grand-son of a Lord on one hand, and of an Admiral on the other, and I shall be proud to introduce you to the best families in England. Yes—to be reviled and insulted, because I am the son of an out-cast, replied Walter. No, my boy. To be received, and loved, and owned by all. To take your proper position in society, and your grand-father’s name and position. Ah, Cora, you don’t know me. You know not that I care not for Lords or Admirals. I care nothing for wealth or titles. I would not exchange one inch of American soil for all Briton, nor my blue eyed Amy for the fairest woman in London. You think so now, but wait until you have entered society. Wait until you have embarked on the stream of fashion. Wait until the eyes of some London beauty looks long and deep into your dark orbs and say in language that is as silent as the grave, yet as powerful as the thunder that shook Sinai. Wait until you hear one say “Walter, I love you.” Wait until you know yourself, and know that you have your likes and dislikes, and are subjected to the same temptations as other men. Wait until you meet with the woman whose heart beats in unison with your own, who seems to be a part of yourself as she looks in your eyes. One that will cause your soul to silently exclaim: “Mine is thine and thine is mine.” Stop, Cora! Proceed no further. You have reached the pinnacle of love. You have described my ideal of woman. The eyes you spoke of are beaming on me now. The heart you spoke of presses on my own. They beat together. They beat in unison. They are twain—one flesh. I feel her breath on my brow. I hear her sweet voice whispering in my ear: “Mine is thine, and thine is mine.” By an invisible magnetic influence, we keep up a sweet correspondence. The woman you spoke of is my guardian angel, and as the lofty spires come in view, as the panorama of wealth, beauty and temptation are unfolding, I feel as if I was encircled within her arms and hear her say: “Walter, remember our infantile love, the seed of which was planted on the banks of the Callicoon. Here it grew. Here it germinated. Here the rose unfolded and expanded. Here it was clothed in the garb of immortality, never ending, never dying love.” Walter, you are really romantic, and your imagination is floating about in space, surrounded by ethereal glory. But where is this object of your affections? Where is this Amy? Does she exist outside of your imagination? Will you ever see her again? And if you do, will she yet cherish the feelings toward you that you have pictured in your imagination? Cora, before I answer that question, I must ask you one. Have you ever loved?