And to whom can you trust your own letters ?" "True," replied Lucretia, despondingly; and there was a pause.

Suddenly she lifted her head, and cried: "But your father's house is not far from this,--not ten miles; we can find a spot at the remote end of the park, near the path through the great wood: there I can leave my letters; there I can find yours." "But it must be seldom.

If any of Sir Miles's servants see me, if--" "Oh, William, William, this is not the language of love!" "Forgive me,--I think of you!" "Love thinks of nothing but itself; it is tyrannical, absorbing,--it forgets even the object loved; it feeds on danger; it strengthens by obstacles," said Lucretia, tossing her hair from her forehead, and with an expression of dark and wild power on her brow and in her eyes.

"Fear not for me; I am sufficient guard upon myself.

Even while I speak, I think,--yes, I have thought of the very spot.