her look so beautiful.

"Oh, my love, oh, my love," he whispered, "can I ever forget this day?"

"Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for such another day."

"Corinne!" he cried, "here is the ring my father gave his wife, let me
give it to you, and while you keep it, let me be no longer free."

"No, no! take it back," she answered in a stifled voice.

"I shall not," he replied; "I swear never to wed another till you send
back that ring."

"Perhaps when you have read my history, the dreadful word adieu--"

"Never," cried Oswald, "until my deathbed--fear not that word till
then."

"Alas!" said Corinne, "as I looked at the heavens a minute ago, the moon
was covered by a cloud of fatal aspect. A childish superstition came
back to my mind. To-night the sky condemns our love."

That evening Corinne's maid brought him the papers in which she had
written her story.

_III.--Corinne's Story_

"Oswald, I begin with the avowal that must determine my fate. Lord
Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy; his first wife was a Roman
lady; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister by my
father's second marriage.

"I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and remained in the care of
an aunt at Florence until I was fifteen, when my father brought me to
his home in Northumberland. My stepmother was a cold, dignified, silent
woman, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child Lucy, then
three years old; but she usually wore so positive an air that it seemed
impossible to make her understand a new idea.

"My tastes and talents had already been formed, and they were but
ill-suited to the dismal monotony of my life in Northumberland. I was
bidden to forget Italy; I was not allowed to converse on poetry or art;
I had no congenial friends. Even the sun, that might have reminded me of
Italy, was often hidden by fog. My only occupation was the education of
my half-sister; my only solace, the company of my father.

"'My dear child, he said to me once, it is not here as in Italy; our
women have no occupation save their domestic uses. Your talents may
beguile your solitude; but in a country town like this all that attracts
attention excites envy. One must not combat the habits of a place in
which one is established. It is better to bear a little ennui than to be
beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you
do.'

"Lord Nevil was my father's intimate friend, and it was yourself