Blanche was again silent, and turned away her head, while the sighs came thick and deep, and the tears were evidently falling fast. Burrel paused for a moment, and then added, in a sad but kindly tone--"Or is it, Miss Delaware, that I have imagined a heart free, that was before engaged? Perhaps, long ere I knew you, some more fortunate person may have created an interest which can be inspired but once; perhaps, even, circumstances may have prevented you from rendering him as happy as you might otherwise have done. Oh, tell me, is it so? For though all men are selfish, I should find it easy to gratify my selfishness in contributing to your happiness. I have interest--I have power; and if I could render Blanche Delaware happy with one that she loves, it would be the next blessing to possessing her hand myself. Tell me, Miss Delaware, I beseech you, is it as I imagine?" "Oh! no, no, no!" cried Blanche, turning her glowing face toward him. "No, upon my word, I never saw the man that I could love but--" The deepening blush and the fresh burst of tears concluded the sentence as Burrel's heart could have desired; and again laying his hand upon hers, he besought her to tell him what then was the obstacle. But Blanche drew back--not offended, but sad and determined. "It is in vain, Mr. Burrel," she said; "and I am bound to tell you so at once. My mind is made up--my resolution is taken. You have my highest esteem, my deepest gratitude, my most sincere regard, but you can not have--" She paused at the word love; for no circumstances, to the mind of Blanche Delaware, could palliate a falsehood, and she felt too bitterly that he did possess her love also. She changed the phrase in the midst, and added, "I can never give you my hand." One only glance at the countenance of her lover made her feel that she could bear no more, and that it were better for them both to part at once. She drew back a single step, and then, with a look of painful earnestness while her hand unconsciously was laid upon his arm, she said, in a low, sad tone, "Forgive me, Mr. Burrel! Oh, forgive me!" and the next moment Burrel was standing alone by the side of the fountain. He remained there for several minutes, with every painful feeling that it is possible to imagine struggling together in his bosom. First, there was the disappointment of hopes that he had encouraged to a pitch of which he had had no notion, till they were done away forever; the breaking of a thousand sweet dreams, the vanishing of a crowd of happy images, the dissolution of all the fairy fabric which the enchanter Fancy builds up round the cradle of young affection. Then there were the doubts, the fears, the jealousies, the vague and somber imaginings, to which the unexplained and extraordinary conduct of her that he loved gave rise; and then, again, was the rankling sting of mortified pride, shooting its venom into the wound inflicted by disappointment.