“And when we met yesterday by moonlight, could I not even then read the expression of your face? the chilling indifference of which it spoke, haunted me all night; and your hand, too, did it not tell the same tale? those fingers which once used to return the pressure of mine, now coldly suffer me to touch them, passively submitting to a form which is demanded by good manners, not expressive of sympathy. Do you suppose I am insensible, or indifferent to the change? Would to Heaven that I could annihilate the last eighteen months, and stand once more by your side the friend I once claimed to be!” “Would that we could, Mr. Huyton, so far as you are concerned,” replied she, gravely; “but the wish is idle and vain! we are what we have made ourselves, and feelings, words, actions, can never, _never_ be recalled. Would that it were possible to begin anew our acquaintance!” “I would still be your friend, Hilary,” said he, in a more gentle voice; “may I not be that, may I not sometimes see you on these terms?” “I believe you would; I know you are generous and noble; I can not forget your words last night, and I can honor the feeling that dictated them.” A flash of joy passed across his face at these words, and fixing his eyes on her, he said: “And may I hope that you will still see me, receive me as a friend――let me sometimes visit your father, sometimes converse with you?” She shook her head. “Not now; not under present circumstances.” “Not for your father’s sake? he loves me, you know,” said he, persuasively. “I dare not.” “Dare not! which then is it that you will not trust, my honor or yours, Hilary?” There was a shadow gathering on his brow. “Why should we peril either,” replied she; “mine, yours, or that of another who is far away? You know my faith is pledged to him, to what end then _our_ meeting, until you too have chosen another object for the love you have so unfortunately misplaced? Then we _may_ meet perhaps as friends. Till then, let us part as friends.” “You have nothing more to fear from me, from my love,” replied he, bending down his eyes to conceal their expression. “But neither has any one aught to hope from it! For me to love again is impossible. Let it be enough that I resolve to extinguish a vain, hopeless passion. I ask now to be trusted as a friend only. Can you not believe me so far as that?” “It is wisest not to try,” said she, slowly. “What makes you so mistrustful?” questioned he, looking earnestly at her. “Experience!” was her answer; while the color deepened on her cheeks, as she thought of past scenes. “Are you quite candid now, Miss Duncan? is it not, rather, the injunction, the wish, perhaps, I should say, of _him_, of Captain Hepburn? Did not he bid you shun me? It can not be your own nature to be so newly suspicious; tell me it is his.” “No, indeed, he laid no restriction on me: he trusted entirely to my prudence, and I will show I deserved it.”