ing unfaithful to me."

"I don't contemplate it, dearest, I merely take it as an hypothesis."

"I don't see much difference."

What reply could I make? There was reason in what Clementine said, though
she was deceived, but her mistakes were due to her love. My love was so
ardent as to be blind to possible--nay, certain, infidelities. The only
circumstance which made me more correct in my estimate of the future than
she, was that this was by no means my first love affair. But if my
readers have been in the same position, as I suppose mast of them have,
they will understand how difficult it is to answer such arguments coming
from a woman one wishes to render happy. The keenest wit has to remain
silent and to take refuge in kisses.

"Would you like to take me away with you?" said she, "I am ready to
follow you, and it would make me happy. If you love me, you ought to be
enchanted for your own sake. Let us make each other happy, dearest."

"I could not dishonour your family."

"Do you not think me worthy of becoming your wife?"

"You are worthy of a crown, and it is I who am all unworthy of possessing
such a wife. You must know that I have nothing in the world except my
fortune, and that may leave me to-morrow. By myself I do not dread the
reverses of fortune, but I should be wretched if, after linking your fate
with mine, you were forced to undergo any privation."

"I think--I know not why--that you can never be unfortunate, and that you
cannot be happy without me. Your love is not so ardent as mine; you have
not so great a faith."

"My angel, if my fate is weaker than yours, that is the result of cruel
experience which makes me tremble for the future. Affrighted love loses
its strength but gains reason."

"Cruel reason! Must we, then, prepare to part?"

"We must indeed, dearest; it is a hard necessity, but my heart will still
be thine. I shall go away your fervent adorer, and if fortune favours me
in England you will see me again next year. I will buy an estate wherever
you like, and it shall be yours on your wedding day, our children and
literature will be our delights."

"What a happy prospect!--a golden vision indeed! I would that I might
fall asleep dreaming thus, and wake not till that blessed day, or wake
only to die if it is not to be. But what shall I do if you have left me
with child?"

"Divine Hebe, you need not fear. I have managed that."

"Managed? I did not think of that, but I see what you me