there, and be the partner of my life?"

"Surely I could," she answered, "for I love you."

"In love's name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more
secrets from me."

"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald. I only ask that you require not my
story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the
support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must
decide my fate?"

"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me, it shall no longer be a
sad one."

When Easter was over, Corinne set out for Naples, where she had many
friends and admirers; and Oswald accompanied her there. She still feared
to tell the story of her life.

"Who can tell," she said to Oswald, "if, when I have opened my heart to
you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such
doubt?"

To encourage her, and to exchange confidences honourably with her, he
told her his own secret He had been skilfully drawn into an intrigue
with a scheming Frenchwoman, utterly against his father's wishes; when
he had escaped from the net that had been cast for him, and was hurrying
homeward, he heard the news that the being whom he loved and revered
most of all mankind was dead. He had knelt at his father's tomb and
sworn in atonement that he would never marry without his consent. But
how obtain the consent of one who was no more? Lucy Edgarmond--Corinne
started at the name--had been destined by his father for his bride. Was
the wish one that could be set aside? He had simply advised the match,
for Lucy was still a child with character unformed.

"Ere I met you," said Oswald, "I meant to fulfil his wish as an act of
expiation; but now," he went on passionately, "you have triumphed over
my whole being. My doubts are over, love; I am yours for ever. Would my
father have had it otherwise had he known you?"

"Hold," cried Corinne, "speak not thus to me yet!"

"Ah, tell me what you have to tell me!"

"Presently I shall; and I shall hear my sentence from your lips
unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel."

Ere she revealed her story, Corinne gave a fete, as if to enjoy one more
day of fame and happiness ere her lover pronounced her doom. It was held
on the cape of Micena. The lovely bay and its islands lay before the
party; Vesuvius frowned in the background. As the party embarked to
return in the glowing calm of the evening hour, Corinne put back her
tresses that she might better enjoy the sea air; Oswald had never seen