“That is a feeling,” she replied, evidently softened by the tender spirit of his words, “of which you are a better judge than I can be.”

“Oh say, my dearest, let me hear you say with your own lips, that you will be my wife.”

“I will,” she whispered—­and as she spoke, he inhaled the fragrance of her breath.

“My wife!”

“Your wife!”

Sweet, and long, and rapturous was the kiss which sealed this sacred and entrancing promise.  The pathetic sentiment that pervaded their attachment kept their passion pure, and seldom have two lovers so beautiful, sat cheek to cheek together, in an embrace guileless and innocent as theirs.

Jane, however, withdrew herself from his arms, and for a few moments felt not even conscious, so far was her heart removed from evil, that an embrace under such circumstances was questionable, much less improper.  Following so naturally from the tenderness of their dialogue, it seemed to be rather the necessary action arising from the eloquence of their feeling, than an act which might incur censure or reproof.  Her fine sense of propriety, however, could be scarcely said to have slumbered, for, with a burning cheek and a sobbing voice, she exclaimed,

“Charles, these secret meetings must cease.  They have involved me in a course of dissimulation and falsehood towards my family, which I cannot bear.  You say you love me, and I know you do, but surely you could not esteem, nor place full confidence in a girl, who, to gratify either her own affection or yours, would deceive her parents.”

“But, my dearest girl, you reason too severely.  Surely almost all who love must, in the earliest stages of affection, practice, to a certain extent, a harmless deception upon their friends, until at least their love is sanctioned.  Marriages founded upon mutual attachment would be otherwise impracticable.”

“No deception, dear Charles, can be harmless.  I cannot forget the precepts of truth, and virtue, and obedience to a higher law even than his own will, which my dear papa taught me, and I will never more violate them, even for you.”

“You are too pure, too full of truth, my beloved girl, for this world.  Social life is carried on by so much dissimulation, hypocrisy, and falsehood, that you will be actually unfit to live in it.”

“Then let me die in it sooner than be guilty of any one of them.  No, dear Charles, I am not too full of truth.  On the contrary, I cannot understand how it is that my love for you has plunged me into deceit.  Nay more, Charles,” she exclaimed, rising up, and placing her hand on her heart, “I am wrong here—­why is it, will you tell me, that our attachment has crossed and disturbed my devotions to God.  I cannot worship God as I would, and as I used to do.  What if His grace be withdrawn from me?  Could you love me then?  Could you love a cast-a-way?  Charles, you love truth too well to cherish affection for a being, a reprobate perhaps, and full of treachery and falsehood.  I am not such, but I fear sometimes that I am.”