George did not answer, but his chest heaved, and his face fell forward upon the arms which were folded on the table before him. At last he lifted his face, pale and tear-stained, turning it to his brother. “This remembrance is killing me, Louis. We will never talk these matters over again.” “As you think best, George,” replied the brother, “but I _must_ speak with you. My situation is more painful than yours, for suspense is added to the rest!” “True, true. I interrupted your story, Louis. You see how selfish grief is.” CHAPTER LVII. THE SECRET MARRIAGE.—LOUIS GOES ON WITH HIS STORY. “I think, George, that concentration of feeling belongs to our race. I felt when Oakley carried off the only being I could ever love, that life would thereafter be desolation to me. “This very feeling led me to seek the society of Louisa Oakley, who remained with Mrs. Judson, and still met me as of old. She was the only person of whom I could hear tidings of my lost love, the sole link that connected me with the romance of my youth. When letters came to her from abroad, she brought them for me to read, little dreaming of the heart aches they gave me. Mrs. Judson was a proud, cold woman, full of sanctimonious reserves chilling to an impulsive young creature like Louisa. Her ideas of duty were rigid, her whole life, as she said almost in her prayers, one series of the most perfect rectitude. For any human being to suppose that she had a fault, was a proof of depraved judgment, for which she could find no possibility of excuse. “You can imagine, brother George, that a home presided over by a woman so coldly perfect, would be a cheerless abode for an ardent, gentle girl, after a companion like Miss Judson had left it. You can imagine also, that her heart would turn for sympathy wherever it could be found. “Louisa was incapable of concealment or dissimulation of any kind. It was not long before the conviction forced itself upon me, that, heart and soul, this young creature loved me. This was a wretched discovery, and, at first, aroused nothing but repulsion in my heart; but that which I had myself suffered came back, in a thousand gentle and compassionating feelings. The pain still fresh in my own bosom was too recent; I could not inflict it upon another, that other a creature so lovable and so good,—my only friend. “There was no confession of attachment in words, but from the day of this discovery our interviews in the arbor became more subdued, and the compassion which I felt for her must have taken a shade of tenderness. It was not love, but what young girl of sixteen could have detected the difference between the gentle gratitude with which a bereaved heart receives affection, and the bright outgushing of an impulsive attachment?