Meantime, the artless Laura saw, in his highly-coloured pictures of happy love, only scenes of domestic peace and literary leisure; and, judging of his feelings by her own, dreamed not of ought that would have disgraced the loves of angels. Tedious weeks of absence had intervened since their last meeting; and Hargrave's resolution was taken. To live without her was impossible; and he was determined to try whether he had overrated the strength of her affection, when he ventured to hope that to it she would sacrifice her all. To meet her thus unexpectedly filled him with joy, and the heart of Laura throbbed quick as he expressed his rapture. Never had his professions been so ardent; and, softened by sorrow and by absence, never had Laura felt such seducing tenderness as now stole upon her. Unable to speak, and unconscious of her path, she listened with silent rapture to the glowing language of her lover, till his entreaties wrung from her a reluctant confession of her preference. Unmindful of the feeling of humiliation that makes the moment of such a confession, of all others, the least favourable to a lover's boldness, Hargrave poured forth the most vehement expressions of passion; while, shrinking into herself, Laura now first observed, that the shades of evening were closing fast, while their lonely path led through a wood that climbed the rocky hill.--She stopped.--'I must return,' said she, 'my father will be anxious for me at this hour.'--'Talk not now of returning,' cried Hargrave impetuously, 'trust yourself to a heart that adores you. Reward all my lingering pains, and let this happy hour begin a life of love and rapture.'--Laura, wholly unconscious of his meaning, looked up in his face with an innocent smile. 'I have often taxed you with raving,' said she, 'now, I am sure, you must admit the charge.'--'Do not sport with me loveliest,' cried Hargrave, 'nor waste these precious moments in cold delay. Leave forms to the frozen hearts that wait them, and be from this hour mine, wholly and for ever.' Laura threw a tearful glance on her mourning habit. 'Is this like bridal attire?' said she: 'Would you bring your nuptial festivities into the house of death, and mingle the sound of your marriage vow with my mother's dying groans?' Can this simplicity be affected, thought Hargrave. Is it that she will not understand me? He examined her countenance. All there was candour and unsuspecting love. Her arm rested on his with confiding pressure, and for a moment Hargrave faltered in his purpose. The next, he imagined that he had gone too far to recede; and pressing her to his breast with all the vehemence of passion, he, in hurried half-articulate whispers, informed her of his real design. No words can express her feelings, when, the veil thus rudely torn from her eyes, she saw her pure, her magnanimous Hargrave--the god of her idolatry, degraded to a sensualist--a seducer. Casting on him a look of