“Yes,” said Fanny, stopping on the path, and speaking with energy, as she confronted her cousin. “Yes, Lord Cashel. He, above all others, knows it. I have told him so almost on my knees. I have implored him, as a child may implore her father, to bring back to me the only man I ever loved. I have besought him not to sacrifice me. Oh! how I have implored him to spare me the dreadful punishment of my own folly—wretchedness rather—in rejecting the man I loved. But he has not listened to me; he will never listen to me, and I will never ask again. He shall find that I am not a tree or a stone, to be planted or placed as he chooses. I will not again be subjected to what I have to-day suffered. I will not—I will not—” But Fanny was out of breath; and could not complete the catalogue of what she would not do. “And did you intend to tell me all this, had I not spoken to you as I have done?” said Kilcullen. “I did,” said she. “I was on the point of telling you everything: twice I had intended to do so. I intended to implore you, as you loved me as your cousin, to use your exertions to reconcile my uncle and Lord Ballindine—and now instead of that—” “You find I love you too well myself?” “Oh, forget, Adolphus, forget that the words ever passed your lips. You have not loved me long, and therefore will not continue to love me, when you know I never can be yours: forget your short-lived love; won’t you, Adolphus?”—and she put her clasped hands upon his breast—“forget,—let us both forget that the words were ever spoken. Be still my cousin, my friend, my brother; and we shall still both be happy.”