y the greater power
of _your_ intellect seek the mastery over _mine_. Let the loneliness and
isolation of my life here rather appeal to you to pity than suggest the
thought of influencing and dominating me.'

'Would that I might. What would I not give or do to have that power that
you speak of.'

'Is this true?' said she.

'It is.'

'Will you swear it?'

'Most solemnly.'

She paused for a moment, and a slight tremor shook her mouth; but whether
the motion expressed a sentiment of acute pain or a movement of repressed
sarcasm, it was very difficult to determine.

'What is it, then, that you would swear?' asked she calmly and even coldly.

'Swear that I have no hope so high, no ambition so great, as to win your
heart.'

'Indeed! And that other heart that you have won--what is to become of it?'

'Its owner has recalled it. In fact, it was never in _my_ keeping but as a
loan.'

'How strange! At least, how strange to me this sounds. I, in my ignorance,
thought that people pledged their very lives in these bargains.'

'So it ought to be, and so it would be, if this world were not a web of
petty interests and mean ambitions; and these, I grieve to say, will find
their way into hearts that should be the home of very different sentiments.
It was of this order was that compact with my cousin--for I will speak
openly to you, knowing it is her to whom you allude. We were to have been
married. It was an old engagement. Our friends--that is, I believe, the
way to call them--liked it. They thought it a good thing for each of us.
Indeed, making the dependants of a good family intermarry is an economy of
patronage--the same plank rescues two from drowning. I believe--that is, I
fear--we accepted all this in the same spirit. We were to love each other
as much as we could, and our relations were to do their best for us.'

'And now it is all over?'

'All--and for ever.'

'How came this about?'

'At first by a jealousy about _you_.'

'A jealousy about _me_! You surely never dared--' and here her voice
trembled with real passion, while her eyes flashed angrily.

'No, no. I am guiltless in the matter. It was that cur Atlee made the
mischief. In a moment of weak trustfulness, I sent him over to Wales to
assist my uncle in his correspondence. He, of course, got to know
Lady Maude Bickerstaffe--by what arts he ingratiated himself into her
confidence, I cannot say. Indeed, I had trusted that the fellow's vulgarity
would fo