Another knock; a third, somewhat louder, and the door opened. “Did you tell me to come in?” Miss Eliza started from her knees, with a splendid sweep of her draperies, and turning away her head, wiped the tears from her eyes with ostentatious privacy. “Oh, Mr. Savage! I—I did not hear you. Pray be seated; in a few moments I shall be more composed.” “What has happened to trouble you, Miss Halstead?” inquired Savage, looking innocent as a lamb. “Oh! can you ask? That scene! That terrible enlightenment! Horace! dear Horace——What am I about! Has my sensitive nature lost its pride; all the lofty feeling which hedges in the love of a woman’s heart like—like—— “Like the bur around a half-ripe chestnut,” suggested Savage. It was very impudent, truly; but the young fellow could not have helped saying it to save his life—it came into his mind and out on his lips so suddenly. “Do you mock my anguish? Load my desolate heart with ridicule?” cried the lady, dashing back the skirt of her dress like a tragedy queen in high agony. “Has it come to this?” “I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Halstead!” said Savage, blushing for himself; “but you seemed at a loss for some comparison, and that came into my mind—not a bad one, either, when you reflect how those ten thousand little thorns keep rude hands from the fruit, guarding it sacredly till the burs open of themselves, and let the nuts drop out.” “Mr. Savage,” said Eliza, “I beg your pardon; it was a beautiful idea; my heart feels all its poetry. The thorns you speak of are piercing it, oh, how cruelly! The bur has opened, the fruit has dropped out, and you are treading it under your feet.” “I—I, Miss Eliza?” “Yes, you; the betrothed of my soul! But it is all over; never in this world can we be to each other what we have been.” “Why, Miss Halstead?” “There it is; Miss Halstead—cold, cruel, Miss Halstead?” “But I do not understand.” “And never, never will!” cried Miss Eliza, spreading one hand over her bosom. “No common mind can ever comprehend the anguish buried here.” “But what is this all about? I am quite unconscious of having offended you.” “Offended! Does love take offence? Does despair reveal itself in anger? Oh, Mr. Savage! it was not three days ago that I received the most touching proposal—money, position, manly beauty, every thing that could tempt the heart from its allegiance to a beloved object, or kindle the ambition. But I refused it, gently, kindly—but I refused it.” “And why, Miss Halstead?” “Why? Great heavens! He asks me, why?” She turned her eyes upon him; she clasped her hands, and sunk upon her knees, burying her face in the cushions of that most convenient chair. “He asks me, why! He asks me, why!” Her shoulders began to heave under the thin lace that covered them; her head swayed to and fro in spasms of grief. She crushed a little web of fine linen and lace up to her eyes with both hands, and wet it with her tears.