'If I must indeed renounce every dearer hope,' resumed he, 'then in your friendship, my ever dear Miss Montreville, I must seek the happiness of my after-life, and surely'--'Oh no,' interrupted Laura, 'that must not be--the part, the little part of your happiness which will depend upon earthly connections, you must find in that of some fortunate woman who has yet a heart to give.' 'How can you name it to me?' cried De Courcy half indignantly! 'Can he who has known you Laura, admired in you all that is noble, loved in you all that is enchanting, transfer his heart to some common-place being?--You are my business--you are my pleasure--I toil but to be worthy of you--your approbation is my sweetest reward--all earthly things are precious to me but as you share in them--even a better world borrows hope from you. And is this a love to be bestowed on some soulless thing? No, Laura, I cannot, I will not change. If I cannot win your love, I will admit no substitute but your friendship.' 'Indeed, Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, unconsciously pressing, in the energy of speech, the hand which held hers. 'Indeed it is to no common-place woman that I wish to resign you. Lonely as my own life must be, its chief pleasures must arise from the happiness of my friends, and to know that you are happy.'--Laura stopped, for she felt her own voice grow tremulous. 'But we will not talk of this now,' resumed she, 'I shall be absent for some months at least, and in that time you will bring yourself to think differently. Promise me at least to make the attempt.' 'No, Laura,' answered De Courcy, 'that I cannot promise. I will never harass you with importunity or complaint, but the love of you shall be my heart's treasure, it shall last though life--beyond life--and if you cannot love me, give in return only such kind thoughts as you would bestow on one who would promote your happiness at the expence of his own. And promise me, dearest Laura, that when we meet, you will not receive me with suspicion or reserve, as if you feared that I should presume on your favour, or persecute you with solicitations. Trust to my honour, trust to my love itself for sparing you all unavailing entreaty. Promise me then, ever to consider me as a friend, a faithful tender friend; and forget, till my weakness reminds you of it, that ever you knew me as a lover.' 'Ah, Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, tears filling her eyes, 'what thoughts but the kindest can I ever have of him who comforted my father's sorrows, who relieved--in a manner that made relief indeed a kindness--relieved my father's wants? And what suspicion, what coldness can I ever feel towards him whom my father loved and honoured! Yes I will trust you; for I know that you are as far above owing favours to compassion as to fear.'