ze. I pointed to her, and with a voice scarcely articulate--for, at
that period, the sob would rise too readily to my throat, and the tear
start too freely to my eye--I exclaimed:

"Behold my home--my country claims the duty of a son!"

"Monsieur knows best," said Manuel, almost coldly. "His countrymen have
conquered us: you are a gallant race, undoubtedly; but one of them has
not shown much mercy to my daughter."

The passionate girl was at my feet--yes, kneeling at my feet, and her
supplicating hands were clasped in that attitude of humility that is due
only to God. Who taught her the infinite pathos of that beautiful
posture? Taught her! She had no teacher, save Nature and Love.

"Josephine," said I, lifting her gently up, and kissing her fair brow,
"you are breaking my heart. I cannot stand this--I must rush out of the
house. I have never said I loved you;"--(mean subterfuge!)

"But you do, you do--it is my fate,--it is yours--for three years I have
been expecting you--disbelieve me not--ask the Obeah woman. It is
true," and then, hurrying out the words like the downpouring of the
mountain torrent, she continued, "Do you love me?--do you love me?--do
you love me?"

"I do, Josephine--I do distractedly! But stern honour stands in the
way."

"And what is this honour?" she exclaimed, with genuine simplicity; for
it was evident that, if she had ever heard the word before, she had not
the remotest idea of its meaning: "_Et quelle est cette honneur-la_?"
and there was contempt in her tone.

I had no words to reply.

"Will this honour do that for you which my father--which I--will do?
What has this honour done for him?--tell me, father. Has it put that
gay blue jacket on him, or that small sword by his side? Show him, my
dear father, the rich dresses that we have, and the beautiful arms.
Will honour watch you in your hours of sickness, take you out in the
noonday heats, and show you the cool shady places, and the refreshing
rippling springs? What is this honour, that seems to bid you to break
my heart, and make me die of very grief?"

"Monsieur Manuel," said I, extremely confused, "have the kindness to
explain to dear Josephine what honour is."

"A rule of conduct," he replied, with severity, "that was never
recorded, never understood, and which men construe just as suits their
convenience. One honest impulse of the heart is worth all the honour I
ever heard of."

This was a delicate helping of a