the thrill of my heart when I heard thy voice;
doth the plighted kiss that burns, burns now into my brow, and on my
lips,--do these, these leave me free to carry to a new affection the
cinders and ashes of a soul thou hast ravaged and deflowered? Oh, coarse
and rude belief of men, that naught is lost if the mere form be pure!
The freshness of the first feelings, the bloom of the sinless thought,
the sigh, the blush of the devotion--never, never felt but once! these,
these make the true dower a maiden should bring to the hearth to which
she comes as wife. Oh, taunt! Oh, insult! to speak to me of happiness,
of the altar! Thou never knewest, lord, how I really loved thee!" And
for the first time, a violent gush of tears came to relieve her heart.

Hastings was almost equally overcome. Well experienced as he was in
those partings when maids reproach and gallants pray for pardon, but
still sigh, "Farewell,"--he had now no words to answer that burst of
uncontrollable agony; and he felt at once humbled and relieved, when
Sibyll again, with one of those struggles which exhaust years of
life, and almost leave us callous to all after-trial, pressed back the
scalding tears, and said, with unnatural sweetness: "Pardon me, my lord,
I meant not to reproach; the words escaped me,--think of them no more. I
would fain, at least, part from you now as I had once hoped to part
from you at the last hour of life,--without one memory of bitterness and
anger, so that my conscience, whatever its other griefs, might say, 'My
lips never belied my heart, my words never pained him!' And now then,
Lord Hastings, in all charity, we part. Farewell forever, and forever!
Thou hast wedded one who loves thee, doubtless, as tenderly as I had
done. Ah, cherish that affection! There are times even in thy career
when a little love is sweeter than much fame. If thou thinkest I have
aught to pardon thee, now with my whole heart I pray, as while life is
mine that prayer shall be murmured, 'Heaven forgive this man, as I do!
Heaven make his home the home of peace, and breathe into those now near
and dear to him, the love and the faith that I once--'" She stopped, for
the words choked her, and, hiding her face, held out her hand, in sign
of charity and of farewell.

"Ah, if I dared pray like thee," murmured Hastings, pressing his
lips upon that burning hand, "how should I weary Heaven to repair,
by countless blessings, the wrong which I have done thee! And Heaven