Many days passed; and, during a part of each, Fanny sat beside him to beguile his solitude. She read to him; they conversed together; and the words which fell from her lips surprised and delighted him. She also taught him the use of the harp, and he was enabled to play a few tunes. He regarded her as a veiled angel, and his desire to look upon her features each day became more difficult to control. He argued that it was impossible to love one whose face he had never seen--yet, when she was absent from his side, he was unhappy until her return; she had become the one idea of his thoughts--the spirit of his fancies; he watched her fair fingers as they glided on the harp--his hand shook when he touched them, and more than once he half raised it to untie the thick veil which hid her features from him. But, while such feelings passed through his mind, others of a kindred character had crept into the bosom of Fanny, and she sighed when she thought that, in a few weeks, she would see him no more, that even her face he might not see, and that her name he must never know; and fears for her father's safety mingled with the feelings which the stranger had awakened in her bosom. She had beheld the anxiety that glowed in his dark eyes--she had listened to his impassioned words--she felt their influence: but duty forbade her to acknowledge that she felt it. Eight weeks had passed; the wounds of Augustus were nearly healed; his health was restored, and his strength returned, and Harry said that in another week he might depart; but the announcement gave no joy to him to whom it was addressed. His confinement had been robbed of its solitariness, it had become as a dream in which he delighted, and he could have asked but permission to gaze upon the face of his companion, to endure it for ever. About an hour after he received this intelligence, Fanny entered the apartment. He rose to meet her--he took her hand, and they sat down together. But her harp lay untouched--she spoke little--he thought she sighed, and he, too, was silent. "Lady," said he, anxiously, still holding her hand in his, "I know not where I am, nor by whom I am surrounded--this only I know, that you, with an angel's care, have watched over me, that you have restored me to health, and rendered confinement more grateful than liberty; but, in a few days, we must part--part, perhaps, for ever; then, before I go, grant me but one request--let me look upon the face of her whose remembrance will dwell in my heart as its dearest thought, while the pulse of life throbs within it." "I must not, I dare not," said Fanny, and she paused and sighed; "'tis not worth looking on," she added. "Nay, dearest," continued he, "deny me not--it is a small request. Fear nothing--never shall danger fall upon any connected with you through me. I will swear to you----" "Swear not!" interrupted Fanny--"I dare not!--no!--no!" and she again sighed.