e conservatory, and there she observed him, through
the open casements, walking slowly, with folded arms, upon the moonlit
lawn. There was a short struggle in her breast between woman's pride and
woman's love; the last conquered, and she joined him.

"Forgive me, Ernest," she said, extending her hand, "I was to blame."

Ernest kissed the fair hand, and answered touchingly:

"Florence, you have the power to wound me, be forbearing in its
exercise. Heaven knows that I would not, from the vain desire of showing
command over you, inflict upon you a single pang. Ah! do not fancy that
in lovers' quarrels there is any sweetness that compensates the sting."

"I told you I was too exacting, Ernest. I told you you would not love me
so well when you knew me better."

"And were a false prophetess. Florence, every day, every hour I love you
more--better than I once thought I could."

"Then," cried this wayward girl, anxious to pain herself, "then once you
did not love me?"

"Florence, I will be candid--I did not. You are now rapidly obtaining an
empire over me, greater than my reason should allow. But, beware: if my
love be really a possession you desire,--beware how you arm my reason
against you. Florence, I am a proud man. My very consciousness of the
more splendid alliances you could form renders me less humble a lover
than you might find in others. I were not worthy of you if I were not
tenacious of my self-respect."

"Ah!" said Florence, to whose heart these words went home, "forgive me
but this once. I shall not forgive myself so soon."

And Ernest drew her to his heart, and felt that, with all her faults, a
woman whom he feared he could not render as happy as her sacrifices to
him deserved was becoming very dear to him. In his heart he knew that
she was not formed to render him happy; but that was not his thought,
his fear. Her love had rooted out all thought of self from that generous
breast. His only anxiety was to requite her.

They walked along the sward, silent, thoughtful; and Florence
melancholy, yet blessed.

"That serene heaven, those lovely stars," said Maltravers at last, "do
they not preach to us the Philosophy of Peace? Do they not tell us how
much of calm belongs to the dignity of man, and the sublime essence of
the soul. Petty distractions and self-wrought cares are not congenial to
our real nature; their very disturbance is a proof that they are at war
with our natures. Ah, sweet Florence, let us l