Frankfort and Eleanor were again seated on the rustic bench, beneath the scarlet-tufted corallodendrum. He could not doubt any longer that he had at least touched her heart--how deep the impression was, he could not tell. In her manner to him she was like a child, all joyousness; at times smiling, almost gay, and occasionally confiding, but as yet not so in matters connected with herself. Sometimes she would half promise to "talk of herself" to him; then the time came, and something would intervene. If he had shrunk from asking her previous history, she dreaded to tell it. She said so, but added, for his comfort--"Fear not, dear Major Frankfort; you may pity me as unfortunate, and contemn me as weak, but you will not have occasion to condemn. I am only a wronged, deceived, and, for a long time, most unhappy woman; and if you should despise me for my misfortunes, which you may do"--she put her hand on his lips, as he was about to interrupt her--"you will not love me less, though you may not choose me for your wife." He took her hand in his, and pressed it with a fervency, eloquent but silent. "Ah!" said she, shuddering, "it is so long since I was happy, that, albeit _you_ present the cup, I hold it to my lips, trembling lest it fall." She took the miniature of her boy from her bosom. Frankfort bent over her, and gazed upon the angel face, dimmed with the young mother's tears; but though she wept, it was not with that passionate anguish he had witnessed before. He drew her to him--he ventured to kiss away those slow-falling tears--he had told her that morning that he loved her. "Tell me," at last whispered Frankfort, trembling and cold with suspense, "who was this child's father?" "I could not nerve myself to tell you my sad story," replied Eleanor. "I have written it. My father will give it you this evening, I own I shrunk from this tearing open of the records of the past. There are some passages from which you will turn perhaps in dismay. You will discover, what you may have already suspected, that I have loved and been deceived; but you have yet to decide whether I am a fitting bride for you. I confess I have no hope." Frankfort withdrew his hand from Eleanor's. He paced the walk in great agitation. She waited till he approached her again. "Pity me," said she, rising. "Ah! it has been a terrible task to make this revelation to you. Do me justice--I did not seek to win _you_. I had abjured love for ever; but you came; you were kind; I listened; a new emotion stirred my heart, unlike the wild passion which once brought me to the depths of despair, and now, God help me! _you_, too, may forsake me." She was weeping. "Tell me," he again whispered, "is there any self-reproach?--any shame? Ah, Eleanor! I must know--any--" "Disgrace!" you would say, interrupted Eleanor. Her lover answered her not a word, but stood waiting her reply. The strong, tall man shook like an aspen-tree.