Mrs.Huntingdon moved away, and stood in the recess of the window.

Did she regard this as an intimation that modesty alone prevented me from asking her hand?
and was she considering how to repulse me with the smallest injury to my feelings?
Before I could speak to relieve her from such a perplexity, she broke the silence herself by suddenly turning towards me and observing-- 'You might have had such an opportunity before--as far, I mean, as regards assuring me of your kindly recollections, and yourself of mine, if you had written to me.' 'I would have done so, but I did not know your address, and did not like to ask your brother, because I thought he would object to my writing; but this would not have deterred me for a moment, if I could have ventured to believe that you expected to hear from me, or even wasted a thought upon your unhappy friend; but your silence naturally led me to conclude myself forgotten.' 'Did you expect me to write to you, then ?' 'No, Helen--Mrs.Huntingdon,' said I, blushing at the implied imputation, 'certainly not; but if you had sent me a message through your brother, or even asked him about me now and then--' 'I did ask about you frequently.

I was not going to do more,' continued she, smiling, 'so long as you continued to restrict yourself to a few polite inquiries about my health.' 'Your brother never told me that you had mentioned my name.' 'Did you ever ask him ?' 'No; for I saw he did not wish to be questioned about you, or to afford the slightest encouragement or assistance to my too obstinate attachment.' Helen did not reply.

'And he was perfectly right,' added I.

But she remained in silence, looking out upon the snowy lawn.