“Give me but a moment,” she murmured almost inaudibly, as, overpowered by increasing faintness, she sunk down on a grassy bank near them, and buried her face in her hands.  Minutes rolled by, and still there was silence.  Herbert sat down beside her, threw his arm around her, and pressed a brother’s kiss upon her cold, damp brow.  She started and would have risen, but strength failed; for a moment her head leaned against his bosom, and a burst of tears relieved her.  “Forgive me, Herbert,” she said, striving at once for composure and voice.  “Oh, weak as I am, do not repent your confidence.  It was unexpected, sudden; the idea of parting was sharper than at the first moment I could bear, but it will soon be over, very, very soon; do not doubt me, Herbert.”  She fixed her mournful eyes upon his face, and her cheek was very pale, “Yes,” she said, with returning strength, “trust me, dear Herbert, I will be to my aunt, my more than mother, ever as you wish.  My every care, my every energy shall be employed to soften that deep anguish which—­” She could not complete the sentence, but quickly added, “the deep debt of gratitude I owe her, not a whole life can repay.  Long have I felt it, long wished to devote myself to her and to my uncle, and this charge has confirmed me in my resolution.  Yes, dearest Herbert, while Ellen lives, never, never shall my beloved aunt be lonely.”

Herbert understood not the entire signification of his cousin’s words; he knew not, that simple as they were to his ears, to her they were a vow sacred and irrevocable.  She knew she could never, never love another, and there was something strangely soothing in the thought, that it was his last request that consecrated her to his mother, to her benefactress.  To feel that, in endeavouring to repay the dept of gratitude she owed, she could associate Herbert intimately with her every action, so to perform his last charge, that could he look down from heaven it would be to bless her.

Herbert knew not the intensity of Ellen’s feelings, still less did he imagine he was the object of her ill-fated affection.  Never once had such a suspicion crossed his mind; that she loved him he doubted not, but he thought it was as Emmeline loved.  He trusted in her strength of character, and therefore had he spoken openly; and could Ellen regret his confidence, when she found that after that painful day, her society appeared dearer, more consoling to him than ever?

Although some members of her family could not be present at Emmeline’s wedding, a hasty visit from Edward was a source of joy to all.  He was about to sail to the shores of Africa in a small frigate, in which he had been promoted to the second in command, an honour which had elevated his spirits even beyond their usual buoyancy.  He had been much shocked and grieved at his sister’s account of Mary’s death, and Herbert’s deep affliction; but after he had been at home a few days, the influence of his natural light-heartedness extended over all, and rendered Oakwood more cheerful than it had been since the melancholy event we have narrated.