“Friend beloved,” she thus addressed him, “I have faith, and hope in thee! Thou canst do what no one else can— Thou canst be a friend to me! “Richard, we have lived together All these years of happy youth; Have, as sister and as brother, Lived in confidence and truth. “Thou from me hast hid no feelings, Thy whole heart to me is known; I—I only have kept from thee One dear, little thought alone. “Have I wronged thee in so doing, Then forgive me! but give ear, ’Tis to bare my heart before thee That I now am with thee here. “Well thou know’st my father loves thee; ’Tis his wish that we should wed,— I shame not to speak thus frankly— Wish, or _will_ more justly said. “But this cannot be, my brother, Cannot be—’twere nature’s wrong!— I have said so to my father,— But thou know’st his will is strong.” Not a word spake Richard Burnell; Not a word came to his lips; Like one tranced he stood and listened; Life to him was in eclipse. In a lower tone she murmured, Murmured like a brooding dove, “Know thou,—Leonard Woodvil loves me,— And—that he has won my love.” —Came a pause. The words she uttered Seemed to turn him into stone, Pale he stood and mute beside her, And with blushes she went on. “This is known unto my father;— Leonard is well known to thee, Thou hast praised him, praised him often— Oh, how dear such praise to me! “But my father, stern and stedfast, Will not list to Leonard’s prayer;— And ’tis only thou canst move him,— Only thou so much canst dare. “Tell my father firmly, freely, That we only love each other— ’Tis the truth, thou know’st it, Richard, As a sister and a brother! “Tell my father, if we wedded, Thou and I, it would be guilt!— Thus it is that thou canst aid us,— And thou wilt—I know thou wilt! “Yes, ’tis thus that thou must aid us, And thou wilt!—I say no more!— We’ve been friends, but this will make us Better friends than heretofore!” Yet some moments he was silent; His good heart was well nigh broke; She was blinded to his anguish;— And “I will!” at length he spoke. · · · · ·