"I never thought there was anything wrong, my son," replied the priest, gravely. "I saw the lady's hand in yours, it is true. I saw her eyes turned up to yours, with a very beaming look. I saw yours bent down on her, as if your knee would have soon bent also, but I never thought there was anything wrong--of course not." His tone was perfectly serious; but whether it was conscience, or a knowledge that Father George did not altogether dislike a jest, even upon grave matters, Ferdinand could not help suspecting that his companion spoke ironically. He did not feel quite sure of it, however, and after considering for a moment, he replied, "Well, whatever you may think, Father, it was all very simple. Her horse had fallen with her in the morning; I had not seen her since I had aided to raise her, and I was only asking how she had fared after the accident." "Nothing more, I doubt not," replied the priest, in the same tone. "On my life, on my honour!" exclaimed the young man. "And yet you love her, and she loves you, Ferdinand," rejoined Father George, with a quiet smile. "Deny it not, my boy, for it is a fact." "Well," answered the youth, with a glowing cheek, "it may be true that I love her, but I love without hope, and I do trust--though perhaps you may not believe me when I say so--I do trust that she does not love me, for I would not, for my right hand, that she should ever know the bitterness of such hopeless passion." "But why hopeless?" demanded the priest, and paused for an answer. The young man gazed upon him in surprise, almost amounting to irritation; for deep feeling, except when it is so intense as to lose all sense of external things, will not bear to be trifled with, and he thought the old man was jesting with his passion. "Why hopeless!" he exclaimed at length. "By difference of station, by difference of wealth, by all the cold respects and icy mandates of the world. Who am I, Father, that I should dare to lift my eyes to the daughter of a high and mighty lord like this! Noble I may be--you have told me so--but--" "As noble as herself," replied the priest. "Nay, if blood be all, higher in station. True, fortune has not befriended you, but that same goddess was ever a fickle and capricious dame, and those she raises high one day she sinks low the next, to lift up others in their stead. How many a mighty lord has been pulled from his chair of state, to end his days in dungeons. We have heard of emperors confined to a poor cell, and of princes and heroes begging their bread. The time may come, boy, when upon your arm may hang the fortunes of that lady's house, when to you she may cling for protection and support; and the sun that now shines for her father, may shine for you."