“Miss Marston need not ask Colonel Warenne’s pardon for her kindness to him,” was his formal and measured reply; for he feared to be thought capable of presuming upon the kindness which he thus acknowledged. Adelaide hesitated before she spoke again; the melancholy tone of his voice unnerved her; forcing herself however to proceed, after a pause she resumed,— “My brother tells me that you will not listen to reason, but torment yourself with visions of disgrace impending over you from this court-martial. Will you let me chide you for your folly?” “Folly!” ejaculated Warenne, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Yes,” repeated Adelaide, “folly; you cannot think it wisdom to imagine disaster, and suffer under its pressure, when in all probability the evil you anticipate will never reach you, and even if it should arrive, cannot injure you in the manner you apprehend. Whatever may be the sentence of the court, every fair, every humane person must approve of your conduct.” “Heaven bless you for these words of kindness!” replied Warenne, despondingly; “but you say what you wish me to believe, rather than what you believe yourself.” “No,” said Adelaide, with much animation, “I speak as I think—as I feel.” Warenne raised his eyes from the ground, and looking sadly on her, continued, “I once told you, in a moment of forgetfulness, which I trust you have pardoned, that there is no person whose good opinion I so much ambition. I am deeply sensible of your goodness.” “When you first spoke the words you have just repeated,” said Adelaide, reproachfully, “you did not speak with the cold formality you now do.” The colour rushed to Warenne’s face, but he restrained his feelings. “I spoke in passion then,” said he, “and I speak coldly now, because I dare not trust myself to use the language my heart would dictate; besides I am not what I was. I had then an unsullied character.” “Must I repeat,” rejoined Adelaide, “that in my estimation your character stands as high as ever?—but”—she paused for an instant, and then continued, “you must pardon my boldness,—but I cannot help doubting, whether your grief is solely caused by your apprehension of disgrace.” Warenne would not deny the truth, and he could not acknowledge it, without in some measure trespassing, as he conceived, upon the kindness of one who, to soothe his sorrows, had perhaps overstepped the strict bounds of prudence; he preserved therefore silence, and she proceeded:—