“Without experimental knowledge, Miss Clifton. And all the highest truths we have are obtained without experimental knowledge. I know that true affection is undying, by the same light that without the Bible shows me that God exists—that He made all souls, and that all souls are immortal. It is one of the ‘self-evident’ truths. Ah, Miss Clifton, true affection can no more be killed by scorn, than an angel could be overcome by a demon, than Heaven could be conquered by hell. In the contest between true affection and scorn, it is affection must conquer—scorn must yield. It must be so, lady. The heavens are pledged to it. The sovereignty of the right is involved in it. And when, in such a contest, affection fails, it is because it never was true. No, lady, true affection is never conquered. It is scorn that is conquered. It is scorn that has yielded now. You do not scorn him now, lady.” “No—I would I could!” “Then, in the death of your own scorn see the immortality of his love. He will come back to you. He will come back the first free moment that he has.” “Ah, Catherine! In all this fifteen months he has not written to me.” “You do not know that, Miss Carolyn. _I_ believe that he has written to you, and that the letter has been lost. You know how irregular and uncertain the mail is from that distant frontier.” “Catherine! I have been thinking of writing to him. What is your opinion? What would you advise me to do?” “Not for the world, lady! For, trust me, for every step of advance a woman makes, a man of high honor and fine sensibilities retreats.” Miss Clifton’s brow flushed, and she made a gesture, of impatience, as she exclaimed— “Then _why, why_ knowing that, does he not write?” “Because, perhaps, his first letters miscarried, and he stopped under the supposition that you would not answer him. And then, lady, under all these circumstances, the stiff pen and the cold paper cannot convey all the burning words he would have to pour out at your feet. He will come!” “‘He will come.’ Ah! in that very phrase is a knell deeper than all the rest! He will come! And what a spectre he will see in me! He cannot continue to love me! Impossible! Impossible! He can never love such a faded and scarred ruin as I am.” “Dear Miss Clifton, I have told you so often that you are _not_ a ruin! Your face is very lovely, indeed it is! Fair and delicate and pensive, and far more attractive to all good hearts than ever it was in its high bloom.” “Ah, but faded—faded—faded!” mournfully replied Carolyn. “And then, dear lady, true affection is of the soul. It has been said that love is blind. It is not so. Love has Divine eyes, and creates the beauty that it looks upon. He will love you the more for the calamity and sorrows that have fallen upon you. He will see a deeper beauty in your pensive face, and his love will make it real.” “Oh! impossible, I tell you! Impossible! The sight of me would shock him. He would turn away.” “Lady, do you love your cousin?”