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articulated, while endeavouring to disperse the tears that again strove to find their way down her cheeks; "can you then, thus unabatedly preserve your good opinion of an unknown Wanderer, . . . who seems the sport of insult and misfortune?"

Almost dissolved with tender feelings at this question, Harleigh, gently overpowering her opposition, irresistibly seized her hand, repeating, "My good opinion? my reverence, rather!—my veneration is yours!—and a confidence in your worth that has no limits!"

Ashamed of the situation into which a sudden impulse of gratitude had involuntarily betrayed her, the varying hues of her now white, now crimson cheeks manifested alternate distress and confusion; while she struggled incessantly to disengage her hand; but the happy heart of Harleigh felt so delightedly its possession, that she struggled in vain.

"Yet, let not that confidence,"

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