The youth abruptly turned and hurried from the arbor, walked distractedly up and down the plat before it for some minutes, then returning, said in faltering tones to Sophie— “Do not ask me—_do not ask me_, I beg of you—be at ease—you are the bride of Mr. Withers, but you need not be his wife. Come, Sophie Churchill, I am ready to go with you to the house and say all, and if really needful, _more_, to the assembled company there than I have said to you. Come!” “No,” said Sophie, passing her hand thoughtfully before her brow; “Stop—stop,” then after awhile she held out one hand behind her to where the youth was standing, and said, “Raymond, come to me—sit beside me—unlock your inmost heart to me, poor boy. Come—I am your friend; tell me now why do you wish to save me by exposing your father?” He came and sat beside her, and fixing his sad blue eyes upon her face said— “That I might not be accessary to your misery, Miss Churchill. I have kept his secret and borne the risk of concealment myself; I had no right to suffer the life of another to be risked by my silence.” Sophie sighed again, with her head bowed upon her hand, and asked— “Is he ever so violent and dangerous, then?” “No, not positively violent, but _dangerous_, I fear, Miss Churchill.” “He has never certainly had an attack since he has been here.” “You do not know—has he never been absent?” “Yes, for days, when no one knew where he was; for in his reserve he would not reveal his business, and no one durst ask him.” “Ah! at such times, warned by the premonitory symptoms of his disease, he secluded himself—perhaps in the depths of the forest—perhaps threw himself on board of a packet and slipped up to Baltimore.” “Oh! how wretched, how wretched he must have been, must still be, with no one here to whom he dare trust his dreadful secret.” “And is it possible, Miss Churchill, that no one suspected it here—that no eccentricity of manner threatened to betray him to those that were about him every day?” Sophie took his delicate hand in hers, and pressing it kindly, said— “Raymond, do not call me Miss Churchill, or speak to me as a stranger, or as an indifferent acquaintance; I am so no longer; you must love me, and confide in me, Raymond; you and I have a mutual and a holy duty to perform.” “Yes,” said he, with a bitter sigh, “we must go and make this known. Oh, my unhappy father!”