“Fear nothing, poor girl! it is not for me to judge or blame you. You were but a child when our betrothal took place; you could not have known your own heart; I was twelve years your senior, and I should have had more wisdom, justice, and generosity than to have bound the hand of a child of fourteen to that of a man of twenty-six. We have been separated for three years. You are now but seventeen, and I am in my thirtieth year. You have discovered your mistake, and I suffer a just punishment. It is natural.” “Oh, my God! my God! my cup overflows with bitterness!” moaned the poor maiden, in a voice almost inaudible from anguish. “Compose yourself, dear Margaret. I do not reproach you in the least; I am here to serve you as I best may; to make you happy, if it be possible. And the first step to be taken is to restore to you your freedom.” “Oh, no! Oh, Lord of mercy, no! no! no!” she exclaimed, in an agony of prayer; and then, in sudden self-consciousness, she flushed all over her face and neck with maiden shame, and became suddenly silent. “Dear Margaret,” said Ralph, in a tone of infinite tenderness and compassion, “you have suffered so much that you are scarcely sane. You hardly know what you would have. Our betrothal must, of course, be annulled. You must be free to wed this lover of your choice. I hope that he is, in some measure, worthy of you; nay, since you love him, I must believe that he is so.” “Oh, Ralph, Ralph! Oh, Ralph, Ralph!” she cried, wringing her hands. “Margaret, what is the meaning of this?” “I have no lover except you. I never wronged you in thought, or word, or deed; never, never, never!” “Dear Margaret, I have not charged you with wronging me.” “But I have no lover; do you hear, Ralph? I never have had one! I never should have so desecrated our sacred engagement.” “Poor Margaret, you are distracted! Much grief has made you mad! You no longer know what you say.” “Oh, I do, I do! never believe but I know every word that I speak. And I say that my heart has never wandered for an instant from its allegiance to yourself! And listen farther, Ralph,” she said, sinking upon her knees beside that grave, and raising her hands and eyes to heaven with the most impressive solemnity, “listen while I swear this by the heart of her who sleeps beneath this sod, and by my hopes of meeting her in heaven! that he with whom my name has been so wrongfully connected was no lover of mine--could be no lover of mine!” “Hold, Margaret! Do not forswear yourself even in a fit of partial derangement. Rise, and recall to yourself some circumstances that occurred immediately before you became insensible, and which, consequently, may have escaped your memory. Recollect, poor girl, the admissions you made to your father,” said Ralph, taking her hand and gently constraining her to rise. “Oh, Heaven! and you believe--you believe----”