“Oh, this is sweet, it is sweet, _Sophie! Sophie!_ Why, her very name is something to breathe one’s soul away upon; let us sit down, my Sophie—this meeting, this fast-flooding joy overpowers me!” and he sank down upon one of the long benches that ran on either side of the whole length of the walk, and he opened his arms again and said, “Come, gentle Sophie, come sit beside me; lay your dear head under my arm, against my bosom, and let me talk to you. I am growing dizzier every moment; I thought I was prepared for this meeting, but, oh! my Sophie, I am as much stunned as though the thunder cloud of joy had but just broken over me! Say something rational to me, Sophie—_do_, dear child! You cannot? No, you cannot; you are as silly this moment, my gentle dove, as I am myself. But why do not you talk to me, darling? Your soft eyes are shining with love and joy, but you have not a word for me—why?” “I am thinking of you so much,” said Sophie, softly; “I am thinking, dearest friend, of the long, long years you have passed in desolation of heart, without a home, except your ship and quarters, without a fireside of your own, without a family circle, without affection; coming in and going out of port, alike unblessed, unwelcomed, and unwept, and all for me! for me! I am thinking of that, and wondering if life and soul could repay such love!” “Understand me, dearest; it was _not_ all for you—it was not, God knows, in the hope of ever possessing you! that would have been criminal, Sophie. No, dearest, when I parted with you at the carriage door upon that memorable evening, I carried with me, it is true, a desperate hope! but what am I talking of? I beg your pardon, Sophie; I said I was dizzy! yet this one thing permit me to say, dear Sophie; when I received a letter from my somewhat coolheaded sister, telling me that your marriage was over, and all about it, I as completely, as unreservedly, resigned you, as ever martyr at the stake resigned the life that was forced from him, without the least expectation of ever seeing you again, far less of this, of this!” and Captain Wilde went off into raptures again, kissing her again at “this” and “this.”—“No, Sophie, I made up my mind to turn you out of my heart. I found it hard work; though I resolved to banish the thought of you, I struggled with it in vain! Struggling with a subject of thought—banishing a subject of thought, is a contradiction in terms; for while you have it by the head and shoulders, trying to put it out, you are more intertwined with it than ever, and it holds you fast. And I found, Sophie, that the only way to be rid of an inconvenient and intrusive image, was to fly from it, and I wrenched my attention off and riveted it upon another subject. It is a great thing, this free will of ours; I just had resolved to consider you as dead. I never inquired after you; and Emily, soon guessing my wish, never mentioned you in one of her letters. I studied the ancient languages, and soon, in the