“Mr. Huyton, you are unjust, and such language as this is strangely unpleasant to hear. I do not know what claim you have to speak so. I have never intentionally done any thing to give you hopes that I should change as you wish. Again, I must ask you to be silent, or I shall leave this shelter; I would rather encounter the storm without, than listen to such words.” “You do not know my claim? It is the claim of love, constant, unchanging love, the love of years. Not the feeble growth of a week’s intercourse; the every-day admiration, which at one moment distinguishes its object, the next leaves it without a sigh or a struggle; it is the passionate glowing devotion which rises beyond every earthly consideration, which sets neither honor nor duty above it――which knows no honor, owns no duty except that of loving unchangeably and deeply. This is my claim, who can produce a better? who has striven harder, longer, more devotedly, to make this love apparent?” “I will neither listen to, nor answer such language,” replied she, decidedly; “let me pass.” “I will not,” said he, placing himself in the door-way; “do you suppose I would allow you to go out in this storm, expose yourself to such risk? Sit still.” “Then,” said Hilary, reseating herself, “as you are a man and a gentleman, be silent.” “You were not always so sternly resolute, Hilary!” “Nor you so――” she stopped. “So what? speak out, say what you mean at once,” said he, advancing close to her. “No, I shall not,” replied she, more gently; “I am sure that you do not wish to give me pain, and that this unpleasant topic will be dropped henceforth.” “But do you not pity me?” ejaculated he, seating himself again by her side, and clasping her hand so firmly that she could not withdraw it. “Yes.” “And nothing more, Hilary? esteem, regard, kindly feelings, are all these gone, or did you never entertain them toward me?” “You did not ask for these, Mr. Huyton; you asked for love, which alone I could not give.” “Are you sure?” said he, gazing intently at her. “Are you certain that it is not pride of consistency, or ignorance of your own feelings which misleads you? Do you know what love is, Hilary?” “I do,” said she, in desperation, resolved, even at the risk of raising an indignant jealousy, which she instinctively dreaded, to end his painful importunity. “I know what love is, and that I do not feel it for you.” “Hilary! Hilary!” cried he, in the wildest excitement, and more firmly than ever grasping her hand; “do you mean!――what am I to understand by that avowal?” “That I have no love to give you, Mr. Huyton――my hand and my heart are another’s.” Her blushes confirmed her words. “And who has dared to step between me and my object?” said he, slowly, while his face grew dark with rising passion and jealousy. “Is it, can it be Captain Hepburn?――there is no other.” “It is,” she tried to say, but the words hardly passed her lips; she was frightened by his look and tone.