my ambition would have been to draw
towards me in that modest station such sympathies and affections as
might attach to one so circumstanced. My plan was to assume an obscure
name, seek out some unfrequented spot, and there, with the love of
one--one only--solve the great problem, whether happiness is not as much
the denizen of the thatched cottage as of the gilded palace. The first
requirement of my scheme was that my secret should be in my own keeping.
One can steel his own heart against vain regrets and longings; but one
cannot secure himself against the influence of those sympathies which
come from without, the unwise promptings of zealous followers, the hopes
and wishes of those who read your submission as mere apathy."

I paused and sighed; she sighed, too, and there was a silence between
us.

"Must she not feel very happy and very proud," thought I, "to be sitting
there on the same bench with a prince, her hand in his, and he pouring
out all his confidence in her ear? I cannot fancy a situation more full
of interest."

"After all, sir," said she, calmly, "remember that Mrs. I Keats alone
knows your secret. _I_ have not the vaguest suspicion of it."

"And yet," said I, tenderly, "it is to _you_ I would confide it; it is
in _your_ keeping I would wish to leave it; it is from _you_ I would ask
counsel as to my future."

"Surely, sir, it is not to such inexperience as mine you would address
yourself in a difficulty?"

"The plan I would carry out demands none of that crafty argument called
'knowing the world.' All that acquaintance with the byplay of life,
its conventionalities and exactions, would be sadly out of place in an
Alpine village, or a Tyrolese Dorf, where I mean to pitch my tent. Do
you not think that your interest might be persuaded to track me so far?"

"Oh, sir, I shall never cease to follow your steps with the deepest
anxiety."

"Would it not be possible for me to secure a lease of that sympathy?"

"Can you tell me what o'clock it is, sir?" said she, very gravely.

"Yes," said I, rather put out by so sudden a diversion; "it is a few
minutes after nine."

"Pray excuse my leaving you, sir, but Mrs. Keats takes her tea at nine,
and will expect me."

And, with a very respectful courtesy, she withdrew, before I could
recover my astonishment at this abrupt departure.

"I trust that my Royal Highness said nothing indiscreet," muttered I to
myself; "though, upon my life, this hasty exit would