"What was it, then, dear Edward," she asked, in some surprise; for Marian, with all the quickness of a woman's perception, had noticed the passing colour that came into De Vaux's cheek; and knowing him, and all the little intricacies of his heart, better than he thought--better, perhaps, than she thought herself--she had instantly set down the blush to its right cause, and said, in her own heart, "Edward has been tormenting himself with fancies." Now, however, his words puzzled her, though a latent consciousness of having--in the urgency of the moment, and in the desire to sooth and render Edward patient under his misfortune--a latent consciousness of having given free course to feelings and enthusiasms which she had long held close prisoners in her bosom, made her now feel embarrassed in turn; and a bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, partly from that consciousness, mantled for a moment in her cheek. Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put her question with a smile, full of deep fond affection--with a sort of triumphant happiness, too, in his look that made her inclined, she knew not why, to hide her eyes upon his bosom, as she had done long ago, when first she had acknowledged to him the love that he had won, and witnessed the joy that it called up in his countenance. "I will tell you what it is, dearest," he answered, "that makes me now so happy, that I should have considered anything but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy. It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me has called forth my beloved Marian's true and natural character, and shown her to me fully, as the same dear, excellent, feeling, enthusiastic girl that I have always pictured her to my own imagination--such as her feelings as a child gave promise that she would be--such as I remember her appearing constantly, not many years ago." Marian blushed, and looked down; and there was a swimming moisture in her eyes, which a little more might have caused to overflow in tears: but they would not have been unhappy ones. She felt--