I
might, perhaps, have married Antoinette, but now--"

"Now?"

"She will never be my wife!"

"Does she no longer love you?"

Philip's head drooped. There was a long silence; suddenly he glanced up.

"Why should I conceal it from you longer, Dolores? I love you; I love
you as I loved you in years gone by when I first dared to open my heart
to you; and since that time, in spite of the barriers between us, I have
never ceased to love you. Nor can our love be a sin in the sight of
Heaven since it is God's providence, in spite of your will, that brings
us together again to-day. And I swear that nothing shall separate us
now!"

Dolores had no strength to reply to such language, or to destroy the
hopes which seemed even stronger now than in the past, and far more
precious since three years of absence had not sufficed to extinguish
them in the faithful and impassioned heart of her lover. Philip
continued:

"Ah! if I could but tell you how miserable I have been since we have
been separated. My Dolores, did you not know when you left the chateau
in which we had grown up together to offer as a sacrifice to God the
love you shared, did you not know that you took away a part of myself
with you?"

"Stop!" she entreated, sinking into a chair and burying her face in her
hands.

But he would not listen.

"Since that day," he continued, "my life has been wretched. In vain I
have striven to drive from the heart which you refused to accept the
memory of your grace and your beauty; in vain have I striven to listen
with a complaisant ear to Antoinette, whom you commanded me to accept as
my wife. Do you not see that this sacrifice is beyond my strength. I
cannot do it--I love her as a sister, but you----"

Dolores interrupted him. Suddenly quieted, and recalled to a
recollection of duty by some mysterious inspiration, she rose, and in a
gentle and firm voice said:

"Philip, I must hear no more. I belong to God, and you, yourself, are no
longer free. Antoinette----"

"Would you compel me to hate her?"

The cry frightened Dolores and awakened in her heart a tender pity for
the unfortunate man whom she adored, even while she wrung his soul with
anguish.

"Ah well! do not marry her," she replied, "if the union that your father
desired is a greater sacrifice than you have strength to make; but do
not hope that I shall ever be weak enough to yield to your entreaties.
Whether you love her or whether you detest her, Antoinette w