Her breathing grew short, and large drops stood on her pure beautiful brow.

He had bent his head upon his bosom while she spoke, but now he raised it, and, taking her hand, clasped it warmly.

“Mary, Mary, if you knew what torture you inflicted, you would spare me this!”

It was the first time he had called her Mary, and her pale lip quivered.

“Forgive me, if I cause you pain!”

Bending forward, he continued, in a tone of touching sadness—­“I had determined, Mary, to keep my grief locked in my own heart, and never to let words of love pass my lips.  But the thought of parting with you forever is more than I can bear.  Oh!  Mary, have you not seen for weeks and months how I have loved you?  Long ago, when first we met, a deep, unutterable love stole into my heart.  I fancied for a time that you returned it, till the evening we met at my sister’s, and you spoke with such indifference of leaving me behind.  I saw then I had flattered myself falsely; that you entertained none save friendly feelings toward me.  Still, I thought in time you might learn to regard me with warmer sentiments.  So I hoped on till the evening of our last ride, when your agitation led me to suppose you loved another.  I saw you meet Mr. Stewart, and was confirmed in my supposition.  I gave up all hope of ever winning your affection in return.  Now I see my error in believing for a moment that you felt otherwise to him than as a brother, as the betrothed of your cousin.  I know that you have never loved him, and pardon my error.  When I sought you just now, it was to say good-by, and in absence and varied and exciting pursuits to shut out from my heart the memory of my hopes and fears.  Mary, your words fill me with inexpressible anguish!  Oh, you cannot know how blank and dreary earth will seem when you are gone!  I shall have no hope, no incitement, no joy!”

As she listened to this confession, which a month before would have brought the glow to her cheek and sparkle to her eye, she felt that it came too late; still a perfect joy stole into her heart.  She turned her face toward him, and gently said: 

“I am dying; and, feeling as I do, that few hours are allotted me, I shall not hesitate to speak freely and candidly.  Some might think me deviating from the delicacy of my sex; but, under the circumstances, I feel that I am not.  I have loved you long, and to know that my love is returned, is a source of deep and unutterable joy to me.  You were indeed wrong to suppose I ever regarded Mr. Stewart otherwise than as Florry’s future husband.  I have never loved but one.”

“Mary, can it be possible that you have loved me, when I fancied, of late, that indifference, and even dislike, nestled in your heart?  We shall yet be happy!  I thank God that we shall be so blest!” And he pressed the thin hand to his lips.