, "that risk may easily be
avoided. This meeting seems providential--I entreat you, let us accept
it as such and avail ourselves of it."

"That is," she replied, whilst her glorious dark eye kindled, and her
snowy temples got red as fire, "that is, that I should elope with you, I
presume? Sir," she added, "you are the last man from whom I should have
expected an insult. You forget yourself, and you forget me."

The high sense of honor that flashed from that glorious eye, and which
made itself felt through the indignant tones of her voice, rebuked him
at once.

"I have erred," said he, "but I have erred from an excess of
affection--will you not pardon me?"

She felt the difficulty and singular distress of her position, and in
spite of her firmness and the unnatural harshness of her father, she
almost regretted the step she had taken. As it was, she made no reply
to the stranger, but seemed absorbed in thoughts of bitterness and
affliction.

"Let me press you," said the stranger, "to come into the hotel; you
require both rest and refreshment--and I entreat and implore you, for
the sake both of my happiness and your own, to grant me a quarter of an
hour's conversation."

"I have reconsidered our position," she replied. "Alley will fetch
in our very slight luggage; she has money, too, to pay the guard and
driver--she says it is usual; and I feel that to give you a
short explanation now may possibly enable us to avoid much future
embarrassment and misunderstanding--Alley, however, must accompany
us, and be present in the room. But then," she added, starting, "is
it proper?--is it delicate?--no, no, I cannot, I cannot; it might
compromise me with the world. Leave me, I entreat, I implore, I command
you. I ask it as a proof of your love. We will, I trust, have other
opportunities. Let us trust, too, to time--let us trust to God--but
I will do nothing wrong, and I feel that this would be unworthy of my
mother's daughter."

"Well," replied the stranger, "I shall obey you as a proof of my love
for you; but will you not allow me to write to you?--will you not give
me your address?"

"No," she returned; "and I enjoin you, as you hope, that we shall ever
be happy, not to attempt to trace me. I ask this from you as a man
of honor. Of course it may or perhaps it will be discovered that we
travelled in the same coach. The accident may be misinterpreted. My
father may seek an explanation from you--he may ask if you know where