For a moment there was silence between the husband and wife. Both were gazing upon the infant, and both were occupied with thoughts where pain and tenderness were almost equally blended. Pride, stern and lofty pride, tinged the sweet current of his reflections, and she—impulsive young creature—thought of nothing but her sufferings, her passionate love for him, and of the beautiful child she was sheltering upon her bosom with one fairy arm, from which she had impatiently flung back the loose sleeve of her night-dress, as if detesting the delicate lawn for coming between her and that little form. “You will not send her away!” said the young creature, lifting her eyes to the face of her husband, which was becoming more and more thoughtful each moment. “Ah! if you knew how much I love her!” “I know—I know, Zulima,” said the husband, interrupting the beautiful pleader with an accent which, though not unkind, told how the slightest opposition chafed his proud nature. “It is natural. You must love the child; who could help it? but do you not love me better?—do you not love its future fame? its father’s fame?—your own reputation, well enough to relinquish her for a time?” “I have thought of it all—I know what the world will say of me—but I cannot give her up—indeed, indeed I cannot.” The young mother rose in the bed, and with her child folded to her bosom with one arm, cast the other round the proud man’s neck, and drew his face down till it touched the infant, as she covered his forehead with kisses. “You will keep us both—you will not take our child from me!” “Zulima, it must be,” said the husband, drawing gently back, and freeing himself from her fond embrace, while his fine features bespoke the terrible pain which it cost him to be firm. “While the man who has once claimed you for his wife remains unpunished, I cannot acknowledge you mine, legally, innocently mine, as in the sight of Heaven you are.” “I do not ask it. Let the world think of me as it likes. I will submit to reproach—to suspicion—any thing—but leave my child—never!” “Zulima!” was the firm and almost reproachful reply; “do you think that your reputation is separate from mine? Shall I cast a stain upon my wife which no after time can efface, and then produce her, wronged and sullied, to society? Listen to me, Zulima; cease weeping and listen! The man is yet alive who has called you wife”— “I know—I know!” cried the poor young creature, shuddering from head to foot, and burying her face in the pillows; “Oh say no more! I will give up the child—but spare me that subject!” “No, Zulima. Let us speak of it this once, and then it shall be banished our lips forever. Think you that it is not painful to me as to you?” How painful it was might be guessed by the colorless cheeks and the quivering of that proud man’s lips while he was speaking. “While a mere child you became the dupe and victim of this vile man, De Grainges. He wronged your confidence, wronged your love”—