The poor unfortunate one,--to whom beauty had been given, and grace, and softness,--and beyond all these and finer than these, innocence as unsullied as the whiteness of the plumage on the breast of a dove; but to whom, alas, had not been given a protector strong enough to protect her softness, or guardian wise enough to guard her innocence! To her he was godlike, noble, excellent, all but holy.

He was the man whom Fortune, more than kind, had sent to her to be the joy of her existence, the fountain of her life, the strong staff for her weakness.

Not to believe in him would be the foulest treason! To lose him would be to die! To deny him would be to deny her God! She gave him all;--and her pricelessness in his eyes was gone for ever.
He was sitting with her one day towards the end of May on the edge of the cliff, looking down upon the ocean and listening to the waves, when it occurred to him that he might as well ask her about her father.
It was absurd he thought to stand upon any ceremony with her.

He was very good to her, and intended to be always good to her, but it was essentially necessary to him to know the truth.

He was not aware, perhaps, that he was becoming rougher with her than had been his wont.
She certainly was not aware of it, though there was a touch of awe sometimes about her as she answered him.