sharing. I think I have one friend of my own, but am not
sure; and till I _am_ sure, I live solitary."

"But solitude is sadness."

"Yes; it is sadness. Life, however; has worse than that. Deeper than
melancholy, lies heart-break."

"Lucy, I wonder if anybody will ever comprehend you altogether."

There is, in lovers, a certain infatuation of egotism; they will have a
witness of their happiness, cost that witness what it may. Paulina had
forbidden letters, yet Dr. Bretton wrote; she had resolved against
correspondence, yet she answered, were it only to chide. She showed me
these letters; with something of the spoiled child's wilfulness, and of
the heiress's imperiousness, she _made_ me read them. As I read
Graham's, I scarce wondered at her exaction, and understood her pride:
they were fine letters--manly and fond--modest and gallant. Hers must
have appeared to him beautiful. They had not been written to show her
talents; still less, I think, to express her love. On the contrary, it
appeared that she had proposed to herself the task of hiding that
feeling, and bridling her lover's ardour. But how could such letters
serve such a purpose? Graham was become dear as her life; he drew her
like a powerful magnet. For her there was influence unspeakable in all
he uttered, wrote, thought, or looked. With this unconfessed
confession, her letters glowed; it kindled them, from greeting to adieu.

"I wish papa knew; I _do_ wish papa knew!" began now to be her anxious
murmur. "I wish, and yet I fear. I can hardly keep Graham back from
telling him. There is nothing I long for more than to have this affair
settled--to speak out candidly; and yet I dread the crisis. I know, I
am certain, papa will be angry at the first; I fear he will dislike me
almost; it will seem to him an untoward business; it will be a
surprise, a shock: I can hardly foresee its whole effect on him."

The fact was--her father, long calm, was beginning to be a little
stirred: long blind on one point, an importunate light was beginning to
trespass on his eye.

To _her_, he said nothing; but when she was not looking at, or perhaps
thinking of him, I saw him gaze and meditate on her.

One evening--Paulina was in her dressing-room, writing, I believe, to
Graham; she had left me in the library, reading--M. de Bassompierre
came in; he sat down: I was about to withdraw; he requested me to
remain--gently, yet in a manner which showed he wished compliance. He
had