r him. It was more than love--it was a
devotion on both sides, each day increasing. Who, indeed, could be
more charming, more attractive in all ways than the high-spirited, yet
tender Amine? Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he
reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine's smile would
chase away the gloom, and, as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten.
Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word,
every look, and every gesture. When Philip would take her hand, or
encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral
lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part. She was too noble,
too confiding; she felt that her happiness was centred in his love,
and she lived but in his presence. Two months had thus passed away,
when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention
to Amine's instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in
Philip's arms.

"My children," said he, "I have watched you for some time: this is not
well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is
dangerous. I must join your hands."

Philip started up.

"Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son," continued the priest, in a
severe tone.

"No, no, good Father; but I pray you leave me now: to-morrow you may
come, and all will be decided. But I must talk with Amine."

The priest quitted the room, and Amine and Philip were again alone.
The colour in Amine's cheek varied and her heart beat, for she felt
how much her happiness was at stake.

"The priest is right, Amine," said Philip, sitting down by her. "This
cannot last;--would that I could ever stay with you: how hard a fate
is mine! You know I love the very ground you tread upon, yet I dare
not ask thee to wed to misery."

"To wed with thee would not be wedding misery, Philip," replied Amine,
with downcast eyes.

"'Twere not kindness on my part, Amine. I should indeed be selfish."

"I will speak plainly, Philip," replied Amine. "You say you love
me,--I know not how men love,--but this I know, how I can love. I feel
that to leave me now were indeed unkind and selfish on your part; for,
Philip, I--I should die. You say that you must go away,--that fate
demands it,--and your fatal secret. Be it so;--but cannot I go with
you?"

"Go with me, Amine--unto death?"

"Yes, death; for what is death but a release? I fear not death,
Philip; I fear but losing thee. Nay, more; is not your life in the