and he did not lose hope. At length he resolved to put an end to this uncertainty, and as she begged him not to speak, he did the next best thing. He wrote, and entreated her to reply. But no reply came; and on the next occasion of her hour's holiday he did not see her at the accustomed place. What was the reason? Had he offended her? Had he been mistaken in believing that she loved him? Why did she not write to him? Why did she keep away from him? Lovers only who have gone through the stages of doubt and uncertainty can understand what he suffered. But on the next occasion she did appear. He hastened to her side. "Emilia!" he cried. "Oh! hush," she sighed. "It is not right--it is not right!" "It cannot be wrong," he said, tenderly, leading her to a sequestered spot. "You are unhappy, Emilia." "Very very unhappy. And I am born to make others so." "I will not hear you say that and be silent. You were born to make me happy, and can--if you only will, Amelia; if you only will!" His ardor, his impetuosity, his sincerity, made her weak. She clung to him for support, and the next moment released herself and stood upright, inwardly reproaching herself, for being so foolish. Had she been the most artful of her sex she could not, all through, have acted more cunningly to fasten the chains which bound him to her; but she was only a weak and innocent girl, and when one such as she meets with a genuine, honest soul like Gerald, love is more powerful than cunning. "Emilia, why did you not reply to my letter?" "What letter?" she asked, in surprise. "The letter I wrote to you. Five days I sent it, and I have counted the minutes. It is not like you, Emilia, to make me suffer so." She turned her sweet face to him. "I have received no letter, Mr. Paget." "You have received no letter from me--and you will not call me Gerald!" "I have received no letter," she repeated, "and I cannot call you--what you desire." "Well," he said, with hot impatience, "let that rest awhile; we will speak of it again, and you will make me happy, I am sure, by doing such a very little thing as that. But my letter? I sent it to you--posted it with my own hands. Do you think I would entrust it to another?" "How can I say? I do not even know what was in it. Five days ago! And why did you write to me? Oh, Mr. Paget, have you no regard for my helpless position?" "Can you ask me such a question, Emilia?" he said, reproachfully. "Do you think there lives in the world a man who has a more sincere respect and esteem for you than I have?" "No, no," she cried. "I did not intend to do you an injustice. I beg you to forgive me."