Blushing for her father's wife, Helen would have retired immediately to her own apartments, but Edwin drew her into one of Lady Mar's rooms, and seating her beside him, began to speak of his anticipated meeting with Wallace. He held her hand in his. "My dearest cousin," said he, "will not this tender hand, which has suffered so much for our brave friend, write him one word of kind remembrance? Our queen here will send him volumes." "Then he would hardly have time to attend to one of mine," replied Helen, with a smile. "Besides, he requires no new assurance to convince him that Helen Mar can never cease to remember her benefactor with the most grateful thoughts." "And is this all I am to say to him, Helen?" "All, my Edwin." "What! not one word of the life you have led since he quitted Stirling? Shall I not tell him that, when this lovely arm no longer wore the livery of its heroism in his behalf, instead of your appearing at the gay assemblies of the countess, you remained immured within your oratory? Shall I not tell him that since the sickness of my uncle you have sat days and nights by his couch-side, listening to the dispatches from the borders--subscribing, with smiles and tears, to his praises of our matchless regent? Shall I not tell him of the sweet maid who lives here the life of a nun for him? Or, must I entertain him with the pomps and vanities of my most unsaintly aunt?" Helen had in vain attempted to stop him, while, with an arch glance at her mantling blushes, he half whispered these insidious questions. "Ah, my sweet cousin, there is something more at the bottom of that beating heart than you will allow your faithful Edwin to peep into." Helen's heart did beat violently, both before and after this remark; but conscious, whatever might be there, of the determined purpose of her soul, she turned on him a steady look. "Edwin," said she, "there is nothing in my heart that you may not see. That it reveres Sir William Wallace beyond all other men, I do not deny. But class not my deep veneration with a sentiment which may be jested on! He has spoken to me the language of friendship--you know what it is to be his friend--and having tasted of heaven, I cannot stoop to earth. What pleasure can I find in pageants?-what interest in the admiration of men? Is not his esteem of a value that puts to naught the homages of all else in the world? Do me then justice, my Edwin! believe me, I am no gloomy, no sighing, recluse. I am happy with my thoughts, and thrice happy at the side of my father's couch; for there I meet the image of the most exemplary of human beings, and there I perform the duties of a child to a parent deserving all my love and honor." "Ah, Helen! Helen!" cried Edwin; "dare I speak the wish of my heart! But you and Sir William Wallace would frown on me, and I may not!"