“Our meeting (said I) will be attended with a new and touching interest, the sweet result of that _perfect_ intelligence which now for the first time subsisted between us, and which stole its birth from that tender and delicious glance which love first bestowed on me beneath the cypress tree of the rustic cemetery.” Already I beheld the “air-lifted” figure of Glorvina floating towards me. Already I felt the soft hands tremble in mine, and gazed on the deep suffusion of her kindling blushes, the ardent welcome of her bashful eyes, and all that dissolving and impassioned langour, with which she would resign herself to the sweet abandonment of her soul’s chastened tenderness, and the fullest confidence in that adoring heart which had now unequivocally assured her of its homage and eternal fealty. In short, I had resolved to confess my name and rank to Glorvina, to offer her my hand, and to trust to the affection of our fond and indulgent fathers for forgiveness. Thus warmed by the visions of my heated fan cy I could no longer stifle my impatience; and when we were within seven miles of the castle I told the priest, who was ambling slowly on, that I would be his _avant-courier_, and clapping spurs to my horse soon lost sight of my tardy companion. At the draw-bridge I met one of the servants to whom I gave the panting animal, and flew, rather than walked, to the castle. At its portals stood the old nurse; she almost embraced me, and I almost returned the caress; but with a sorrowful countenance she informed me that the Prince was dangerously ill, and had not left his bed since our departure; _that things altogether were going on but poorly_; and that she was sure _the sight_ of me would do her young lady’s heart good, for that she did nothing but weep all day, and sit by her father’s bed all night. She then informed me that Glorvina was alone in the boudoir. With a thousand pulses fluttering at my breast, full of the idea of stealing on the melancholy solitude of my pensive love, with a beating heart and noiseless step, I approached the sacred asylum of innocence. The door lay partly open; Glorvina was seated at a table, and apparently engaged in writing a letter, I paused a moment for breath ere I advanced. Glorvina at the same instant raised her head from the paper, read over what she had written, and wept bitterly; then wrote again--paused, sighed, and drew a letter from her bosom--(yes, her bosom) which she perused, often waving her head, and sighing deeply, and wiping away the tears that dimmed her eyes, while once a cherub smile stole on her lip (_that smile_ I once thought _all_ my own;) then folding up the letter, she pressed it to her lips, and consigning it to her bosom, exclaimed, “First and best of men!” What else she murmured I could not distinguish; but as if the perusal of this prized letter had renovated every drooping spirit, she ceased to weep, and wrote with greater earnestness than before.