“I did love you; but I never loved you half so well as I ought, Susy; and I never was worthy of you.  Susy, I tell you—­I tell you—­my heart is breaking for your sake.  It would have been well for both of us we had never seen, or known, or loved each other; for I know by my own heart what you must suffer.”

“Denis, don’t be cast down on my account; before I ever thought of you, when I was runnin’ about the glens here, a lonely little orphan, I was often sorry, without knowin’ why.  Sometimes I used to wonder at it, and search my mind to find out what occasioned it:  but I never could.  I suppose it was because I saw other girls, like myself, havin’ their little brothers an’ sisters to play with or because I had no mother’s voice to call me night or mornin’, or her bosom to lay my head on, if I was sick or tired.  I suppose it was this.  Many a time, Denis, even then, I knew what sorrow was, and I often thought that, come what would to others, there was sorrow before me.  I now find I was right; but for all that, Denis, it’s betther that we should give up one another in time, than be unhappy by my bein’ the means of turning you from the ways and duties of God.”

The simple and touching picture which she drew of her orphan childhood, together with the tone of resignation and sorrow which ran through all she said, affected Denis deeply.

“Susan,” he replied, “I am much changed of late.  The prospect before me is a dark one—­a mysterious one.  It is not many months since my head was dizzy with the gloomy splendor which the pomps and ceremonies of the Church—­soon, I trust, to be restored in this country to all her pride and power—­presented to my imagination.  But I have mingled with those on whom before this—­that is, during my boyhood—­I looked with awe, as on men who held vested in themselves some mysterious and spiritual power.  I have mingled with them, Susan, and I find them neither better nor worse than those who still look upon them as I once did.”

“Well, but, Denis, how does that bear upon your views?”

“It does, Susan.  I said I have found them neither better nor worse than their fellow-creatures; but I believe they are not so happy.  I think I could perceive a gloom, even in their mirth, that told of some particular thought or care that haunted them like a spirit.  Some of them and not a few, in the moments of undisguised feeling, dissuaded me against ever entering the Church.”

“I am sure they’re happy,” said Susan.  “Some time ago, accordin’ to your own words, you thought the same; but something has turned your heart from the good it was fixed upon.  You’re in a dangerous time, Denis; and it’s not to be wondhered at, if the temptations of the devil should thry you now, in hopes to turn you from the service of God.  This is a warnin’ to me, too, Denis.  May Heaven above forbid that I should be made the means of temptin’ you from the duty that’s before you!”

“No, Susan, dear, it’s not temptation, but the fear of temptation, that prevails with me.”