u mean," says Monica. "Why should you talk of
unkindness? Why should I be kinder to you than to another?"

"Of your grace alone; I know that," says the young man, humbly. He has
paid court to many a town-bred damsel before this, and gained their
smiles too, and their sighs; yet now he sues to this cold child as he
never sued before, and knows his very soul is set on her good will.

"Why must you choose me to love,--_me_, of all the world?" says Monica,
tremulously: "it is wide, there are others--and----"

"Because I must. It is my fate, and I am glad of it. Whom worthier could
I love?" says the lover, with fond, passionate reverence.

"Many, no doubt. And why love at all? Let us be friends, then, if it is
indeed decreed that our lives meet----"

"There could never be mere friendship between you and me. If your heart
sleeps, at least your sense must tell you that."

"Then I could wish myself without sense. I want to know nothing about
it. Alas! how sad a thing is love!"

"And how joyous! It is the one emotion to be fed and fostered. 'All
others are but vanity.' I will persist in loving you until I die."

"That is a foolish saying; and, even if you do, what will come of it
all?" says Monica, with a sigh.

"Marriage, I trust," returns he, right cheerily. "Because, to give you
another example of love's endurance, and to quote old Southey to you, I
will tell you that he says,--

"'It is indestructable;
Its holy flame forever burneth:
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.'

but not yet awhile, I hope."

"You are a special pleader," says she, with a sudden smile.

"For the cause that I plead I would that I were a more eloquent
advocate."

"You are eloquent enough," glancing at him for a moment, and then again
turning away from him; "too eloquent," she says, with a little sigh.

He is still holding her hands, but now he does not speak or answer her
in any wise. A silence falls upon them, calm as the night. In "full
orbed glory" the moon above sails through the skies.

"A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven."

"There is one thing I must say, Monica," says the young man at last,
lifting her face gently with one hand until her eyes look into his own:
"remember, my life is in your hands."

"Do not overburden me," she answers, but in so low a voice that it can
scarce be heard. Yet _he_ hears.