"I understand--I quite understand," answered Zara; but it may be a question whether that sweet girl really quite understood either herself or him. It is impossible that any two free hearts, can go on long, holding such intimate and secret communion, on subjects deeply interesting to both, without being drawn together by closer bonds, than perhaps they fancy can ever be established between them--unless there be something inherently repulsive on one part or the other. Propinquity is certainly much, in the matter of love; but there are circumstances, not rarely occurring in human life, which mightily abridge the process; and such are--difficulties and dangers experienced together--a common struggle for a common object--but more than all--mutual and secret communion with, and aid of each other in things of deep interest. The confidence that is required, the excitement of imagination, the unity of effort, and of purpose, the rapid exercise of mind to catch the half-uttered thought, the enforced candour from want of time, which admits of no disguise or circumlocution, the very mystery itself--all cast that magic chain around those so circumstanced, within which they can hardly escape from the power of love. Nine times out of ten, they never try; and, however Zara Croyland might feel, she rose willingly enough to sing, while Sir Edward Digby leaned over her chair, as she sat at the instrument, which in those days supplied the place of that which is now absurdly enough termed in England, a piano. Her voice, which was fine though not very powerful, wavered a little as she began, from emotions of many kinds. She wished to sing well; but she sang worse than she might have done; yet quite well enough to please Sir Edward Digby, though his ear was refined by art, and good by nature. Nevertheless, though he listened with delight, and felt the music deeply, he forgot not his purpose, and between each stanza asked some question, obtaining a brief reply. But I will not so interrupt the course of an old song, and will give the interrogatory a separate place: THE LADY'S SONG. "Oh! there be many, many griefs, In this world's sad career, That shun the day, that fly the gaze, And never, never meet the ear. But what is darkest--darkest of them all? The pang of love betray'd?-- The hopes of youth all fleeting by-- Spring flowers that early, early fade? But there are griefs--ay, griefs as deep: The friendship turn'd to hate-- And, deeper still--and deeper still, Repentance come too late!--too late! The doubt of those we love; and more The rayless, dull despair, When trusted hearts are worthless found, And all our dreams are air--but air. Deep in each bosom's secret cell, The hermit-sorrows lie; And thence--unheard on earth--they raise The voice of prayer on high--on high.