This was the first time that Laura had ever appeared to her lover, other than the tender, the timid girl. From this character she seemed to have started at once into the high-spirited, the dignified woman; and, with a truly masculine passion for variety, Hargrave thought he had never seen her half so fascinating. 'My angelic Laura,' cried he, as he knelt before her, 'lovelier in your cruelty, suffer me to prove to you my repentance--my reverence--my adoration;--suffer me to prove them to the world, by uniting our fates for ever.' 'It is fit the guilty should kneel,' said Laura, turning away, 'but not to their fellow mortals. Rise, Sir, this homage to me is but mockery.' 'Say, then, that you forgive me; say, that you will accept the tenderness, the duty of my future life.' 'What! rather than control your passions, will you now stoop to receive as your wife, her whom so lately you thought vile enough for the lowest degradation? Impossible! yours I can never be. Our views, our principles, are opposite as light and darkness. How shall I call heaven to witness the prostitution of its own ordinances? How shall I ask the blessing of my Maker, on my union with a being at enmity with him?' 'Good heavens, Laura, will you sacrifice to a punctilio--to a fit of Calvinistic enthusiasm, the peace of my life, the peace of your own? You have owned that you love me--I have seen it--delighted seen it a thousand times--and will you now desert me for ever?' 'I do not act upon punctilio,' returned Laura calmly;--'I believe I am no enthusiast. What _have_ been my sentiments, is now of no importance; to unite myself with vice would be deliberate wickedness--to hope for happiness from such an union would be desperate folly.' 'Dearest Laura, bound by your charms, allured by your example, my reformation would be certain, my virtue secure.' 'Oh, hope it not!--Familiar with my form, my only hold on your regard, you would neglect, forsake, despise me; and who should say that my punishment was not just.' 'And will you then,' cried Hargrave, in an agony; 'Will you then cut me off forever? Will you drive me for ever from your heart?' 'I have now no choice--leave me--forget me--seek some woman less fastidious; or rather endeavour, by your virtues, to deserve one superior far. Then honoured, beloved, as a husband, as a father'--The fortitude of Laura failed before the picture of her fancy, and she was unable to proceed. Determined to conceal her weakness from Hargrave, she broke from him, and hurried towards the door;--but, melting into tenderness at the thought that this interview was perhaps the last, she turned. 'Oh, Hargrave,' she cried, clasping her hands as in supplication, 'have pity on yourself--have pity on me--forsake the fatal path on which you have entered, that, though for ever torn from you here, I may yet meet you in a better world.'