ooks to
take with us for the journey.

He stood by me in silence for some time, and then said,
"Ellen, it is better, before we part, even for a short time,
to understand each other. I have long been attached to you. I
gave you up and went abroad, when I thought you were in love
with Henry. I tried in vain to forget you. _Now_, Ellen, is
there hope for me? Will you be to me, what you alone can
be--the blessing that I would prize beyond all earthly
blessings--will you be my wife?"

I looked at him; he was pale, and his eyes were full of tears.
As mine were raised to his, I knew, I felt that they spoke
such unutterable, such passionate love, that when, with a
voice hardly articulate, I said in the slow accents of
despair, "No, I cannot be your wife;" it seemed to me that he
must have read into my heart.

He took my hand, and only said in a low voice, "Why?"

"Because," I exclaimed, with a burst of tears, "because I am
utterly unworthy of you."

He let go my hand, and seemed to be struggling with himself:
at last he said, "Ellen, if you mean that you feel now that
you cared more for Henry Lovell than at one time you fancied,
if there is still some affection for him in your heart, it is
no doubt a painful trial for me to hear it; but if you tell me
so frankly, and at once, I shall not cease to respect you, nor
to love you." (His voice trembled as he said these last
words.) "I shall leave you for a time; you must soon, you will
soon, conquer these feelings; and then--perhaps--only tell me
the truth, Ellen--the only thing that could destroy my love
would be, if you ever had, if you ever could, deceive me."

"You cannot love me; it is vain to talk of love to _me!_" I
exclaimed, "I have told you so; I cannot be your wife; why do
you ask me anything else? Leave me! for God's sake leave me! I
am miserable enough as it is."

"Ellen! Ellen! with such feelings as these, how could you
speak to me of Henry and of his marriage as you did?"

"Henry! I am not thinking of Henry; I am not talking of Henry;
I do not care for him; I do not love him, I never did: I
should not be so wretched, perhaps, if I had."

Edward remained silent for a moment, and then said, with a
deep sigh--

"Would to God, Ellen, that there was _truth_ in you! It is
equally difficult to believe and to disbelieve you."

"Think not of me; leave me, Edward, leave me. I _have_ told
you the truth. I do not care for Henry; I solemnly protest to
you that I