"You profess to love me: I am not worthy your love; and if, Count Devereux, I do not reject nor disclaim it--for I am a woman, and a weak and fond one--I will not at least wrong you by encouraging hopes which I may not and I dare not fulfil.

I cannot,--" here she spoke with a fearful distinctness,--"I cannot, I can never be yours; and when you ask me to be so, you know not what you ask nor what perils you incur.

Enough; I am grateful to you.

The poor exiled girl is grateful for your esteem--and--and your affection.

She will never forget them,--never! But be this our last meeting--our very last--God bless you, Morton!" and, as she read my heart, pierced and agonized as it was, in my countenance, Isora bent over me, for I knelt beside her, and I felt her tears upon my cheek,--"God bless you--and farewell!" "You insult, you wound me," said I, bitterly, "by this cold and taunting kindness; tell me, tell me only, who it is that you love better than me." Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too proud to detain her; but when I said this, she came back, after a moment's pause, and laid her hand upon my arm.
"If it make you happy to know _my_ unhappiness," she said, and the tone of her voice made me look full in her face, which was one deep blush, "know that I am not insensible--" I heard no more: my lips pressed themselves involuntarily to hers,--a long, long kiss,--burning, intense, concentrating emotion, heart, soul, all the rays of life's light into a single focus; and she tore herself away from me,--and I was alone..