“Dora, I must leave you to-morrow.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” faltered Dora; and Mr. Brown, glancing at her face, could not but notice its unwonted agitation.  His own wishes, and his sex, led him to misconstrue it; and, pressing, his horse closer to her side, he said joyfully,—­

“And so am I sorry, Dora; but I need not be gone long if you wish for my return.”

Dora did not speak; indeed, she could not:  for the wild dance of sky and plain, of prairie and forest, grew yet wilder; and in her ears the voice of the chaplain mingled with a dizzy hum that almost drowned the words.  She grasped the horn of her saddle with both hands, and only thought of saving herself from falling.  The horse was halted, an arm was about her waist, her head drawn to a resting-place upon a steady shoulder; and that strange, far-off voice murmured,—­

“My darling, my long-loved, long-sought treasure, calm yourself; be happy and secure in my love.  Did you ever doubt that it was yours?”

He stooped to kiss her:  but, at the motion, the virginal instincts of the young girl’s nature rallied to the defence; and, with a sudden spring, Dora sat upright, her face very pale, but her eyes clear and steadfast as their wont.

“Oh, sir, indeed you must not!” cried she, as pleadingly as a little child, who will not be caressed, yet knows not why he should refuse.

“Must not, Dora?” persisted the lover gayly.  “But why must I not kiss my own betrothed?”

“But I am not; I cannot be.  Don’t be angry, sir:  I would have spoken sooner; but I could not.  I believe I was a little faint;” and Dora’s eyes timidly sought those of the chaplain, who, meeting them, remembered many such a glance when his pupil had feared to displease him by inattention or disobedience.  Again he thought to have discovered the source of her refusal, and again he failed.

“Dora,” said he gently, “you do not forget, that, some years ago, we bore the relation of master and pupil; and you still regard me with a certain deference and reserve, which, perhaps, blinds you to the true relation existing between us now.  Remember, dear, that I am yet a younger man; and although my profession may have induced a certain gravity of manner, contrasting, perhaps unpleasantly, with your gay cousins joyous demeanor, I have all, or more than all, of his fervency of feeling; far more, I trust, of depth and steadfastness in my love for you.”

“Please, Mr. Brown,” interposed Dora, “do not let us say any thing about Karl.  He is not concerned in this.”

“You are right, Dora, and I was wrong,” said Mr. Brown with a little effort of magnanimity.  “But I was only trying to convince you that my love is quite as ardent, and quite as tender, as that of a younger and gayer man could be.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dora timidly, as he paused for her assent.

“Not ‘Yes, sir,’ child!” exclaimed the chaplain impatiently.  “Don’t treat me with this distant respect and timid reverence.  I am your lover, your would-be comrade through life, as once through the less earnest battles of war.  Call me Frank, and look into my face and smile as I have seen you smile on Karl.”