"Oh!" she wildly exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart as though to still its beatings, "tell me anything—anything but that. Say you are a beggar; convince me, if you will, that you are no longer worthy of my affection, my esteem, yet I should regard you as I have ever done, but oh! not that you have abandoned the only true Church. Tell me," she continued, the rapidity of her utterance attesting the intense excitement under which she laboured, "that it is false—that you have wilfully, cruelly deceived me, and I shall bless you for the words—speak!" "Mary," said her lover, calmly and sorrowfully. "I have indeed told you the truth: I am now a convert to Protestantism; and God alone knows the agony I have endured while telling you this, knowing, for I see it in your eyes, that we must part. But Mary, ever fondly-beloved Mary, we are both young; let us therefore pray to God that he may grant us time, and a portion of his Holy Spirit, to do that required of us. You"—here he paused for a moment overcome with emotion—"will be courted by the rich and the great of your own faith, and may soon find one to console you for the lover lost, while I——" "You!" scornfully interrupted Mary Cunninghame, her eyes flashing with indignation as she spoke, "will, I suppose, comfort yourself in a similar manner; the recreant in religion will soon prove a recreant in love; but learn this, fair sir, that from this day henceforward, Mary Cunninghame ceases to regard Andrew Ayton in any other light than that of a base apostate, and will tear him from her heart as easily as she now tramples under foot what hitherto she had valued above anything in her possession." So saying, the indignant girl hastily withdrew from its hiding-place a ribbon similar to that worn by her lover, to which was attached a small gold heart, a present from him in younger and happier days, and dashed it with violence on the ground.