efore. It was about the same hour, the fairest of
an autumn day; none were near--the slope of the hill hid the house from
their view. Had they been in the desert they could not have been more
alone. It was not silence that breathed around them, as they sat on that
bench with the broad beech spreading over them its trembling canopy
of leaves;--but those murmurs of living nature which are sweeter than
silence itself--the songs of birds--the tinkling bell of the sheep on
the opposite bank--the wind sighing through the trees, and the gentle
heaving of the glittering waves that washed the odorous reed and
water-lily at their feet. They had both been for some moments silent;
and Florence now broke the pause, but in tones more low than usual.

"Ah!" said she, turning towards him, "these hours are happier than we
can find in that crowded world whither your destiny must call us. For
me, ambition seems for ever at an end. I have found all; I am no longer
haunted with the desire of gaining a vague something,--a shadowy empire,
that we call fame or power. The sole thought that disturbs the
calm current of my soul, is the fear to lose a particle of the rich
possession I have gained."

"May your fears ever be as idle!"

"And you really love me! I repeat to myself ever and ever that one
phrase. I could once have borne to lose you, now it would be my death. I
despaired of ever being loved for myself; my wealth was a fatal dower;
I suspected avarice in every vow, and saw the base world lurk at
the bottom of every heart that offered itself at my shrine. But you,
Ernest,--you, I feel, never could weigh gold in the balance--and you--if
you love--love me for myself."

"And I shall love thee more with every hour."

"I know not that: I dread that you will love me less when you know me
more. I fear I shall seem to you exacting--I am jealous already. I was
jealous even of Lady T------, when I saw you by her side this morning. I
would have your every look--monopolise your every word."

This confession did not please Maltravers, as it might have done if he
had been more deeply in love. Jealousy, in a woman of so vehement and
imperious a nature, was indeed a passion to be dreaded.

"Do not say so, dear Florence," said he, with a very grave smile;
"for love should have implicit confidence as its bond and nature--and
jealousy is doubt, and doubt is the death of love."

A shade passed over Florence's too expressive face, and she sighed
heavi