There was a tremor, a natural feeling in the tone in which she uttered these few words, that recalled to his mind all that he had seen her suffer, and drove from it the harsh thoughts which he had begun to entertain; and he answered, in a voice from which his self–command could not banish all traces of emotion, “Dear Nina, I shall leave you with regret that would amount to misery, if I thought that my visit had brought any permanent unhappiness into this house. I desire to leave you as a Mentor should leave a beloved pupil—as a brother leaves a sister; with a full hope, that when I am gone, you will fulfil your parents’ wishes, your own auspicious destinies, and that, after years and years of happiness among those whom Fate has decreed to be the companions of your life, you will look back upon me as upon a faithful adviser of your youth,—an affectionate friend, who——“ Nina’s nerves were not strung for the part she had undertaken: gradually her countenance had grown pale as marble; a choking sensation oppressed her throat; and she sunk in a chair, sobbing, rather than uttering, the word, “Water.” It was fortunately at hand; and having placed it in a glass by her side, Ethelston retired to the window to conceal his own emotion, and to allow time for that of Nina to subside. After a few minutes she recovered her self–possession; and although still deadly pale, her voice was distinct and firm, as she said, “Ethelston, I am ashamed of this weakness; but it is over: we will not speak of the past, and will leave to Fate the future. Now listen to me: all the arrangements for your departure will be complete by to–morrow evening. At an hour before midnight, a small boat, with one man, will be at the Quai du Marché, below the Place St. Louis. It is far from the fort, and there is no sentry near the spot: you can then row to the vessel and depart. But is it not too dangerous?” she added. “Can you risk it? for the wind whistles terribly, and I fear the approach of a hurricane!” Ethelston’s eye brightened as he replied, “A rough night is the fairest for the purpose, Nina.” “Be it so,” she replied. “Now, in return for all that I have done for you, there is only one favour I have to ask at your hands.” “Name it,” said Ethelston, eagerly. “There is,” she continued, “a poor sick youth in the town, the child of respectable parents in New Orleans; he desires to go home, if it be only to die there: and a nurse will take care of him on the passage, if you will let him go with you?” “Assuredly I will,” said Ethelston; “and will take as much care of him as if he were my brother.” “Nay,” said Nina, “they tell me he is ordered to be perfectly quiet, and no one attends him but the nurse; neither will he give any trouble, as the coxswain says there is a small cabin where he can remain alone and undisturbed.”