Ellis opened the window, and leant out her head; Harleigh, clapping his hand upon his crimsoned forehead, walked with hasty steps round the little apartment. Losing now all self-command, and wringing her hands, in a transport of ungovernable anguish, 'Oh, Harleigh! Harleigh!' Elinor cried, 'to what a chimera you have given your heart! to an existence unintelligible, a character unfathomable, a creature of imagination, though visible! O, can you believe she will ever love you as Elinor loves? with the warmth, with the truth, with the tenderness, with the choice? can she show herself as disinterested? can she prove herself as devoted?--' 'She aims, Madam, at no rivalry!' said Ellis, gravely, and returning to her seat: while Harleigh, tortured between resentment and pity, stood still; without venturing to look up or reply. 'Rivalry?' repeated Elinor, with high disdain: 'No! upon what species of competition could rivalry be formed, between Elinor, and a compound of cold caution, and selfish prudence? Oh, Harleigh! how is it you thus can love all you were wont to scorn? double dealing, false appearances, and lurking disguise! without a family she dare claim, without a story she dare tell, without a name she dare avow!' A deep sigh, which now burst from Ellis, terminated the conflict between indignation and compassion in Harleigh, who raised his eyes to meet those of Elinor, with an expression of undisguised displeasure. 'You are angry?' she cried, clasping her hands, with forced and terrible joy; 'you are angry, and I am thankful for the lesson. I meant not to have lingered thus; my design was to have been abrupt and noble.' Looking at him, then, with uncontrolled emotion, 'If ever man deserved the sacrifice of a pure heart,' she continued, ''tis you, Harleigh, you! and mine, from the period it first became conscious of its devotion to you, has felt that it could not survive the certitude of your union with another. All else, of slight, of failure, of inadequate pretensions, might be borne; for where neither party is happy, misery is not aggravated by contrast, nor mortification by comparison. But to become the object of insolent pity to the happy!--to make a part of a rival's blessings, by being offered up at the shrine of her superiority--No, Harleigh, no! such abasement is not for Elinor. And what is the charm of this wretched machine of clay, that can pay for sustaining its burthen under similar disgrace? Let those who prize support it. For me,--my glass is run,--my cup is full,--I die!' 'Die?' repeated Ellis, with a faint scream, while Harleigh looked petrified with horrour.