Clair's eye kindled with sudden pleasure, but she saw the look, and hastened to temper it.
"You told me that you knew something of my early history."
"Yes, Miss Lesly," he said, puzzled at her manner, and one moment appearing ready to sink back into his dejection, the next, to seize her hand—and give way to something more than joy.
"You must know, then," she continued, fixing her eyes on the ground; "that the heart which has been once given away, is no longer capable of appreciating you."
"Unless," said Clair, eagerly.
"Ah, but with me, there is no unless," said Mabel; "do not ask me to unveil the painful recesses of a mind inured, but not insensible to sorrow; and do not, oh, do not, like me, prepare for yourself that loneliness of heart which I must carry with me always. I dare not trifle with a feeling whose intensity I know too well; but, yet, I hope, so earnestly do I hope, that you have mistaken yourself, and, that pity for my sorrows, and the unhappy share you had in them, have led you to think of me as you have done, and that these feelings may be easily overcome. I feel privileged to speak to you," she said, raising her eyes timidly, "because we are both unhappy."
"Ah, Miss Lesly, you little know me; I would give all my affection, even, for the pleasure of your society—even if you would but tolerate me for a while—my devotion might—."
"Oh, no," said Mabel, earnestly, and unhesitatingly; "do not speak like that again. I would not enter on such holy duties with such feelings only; and, even if I did, cruelly should I be taking advantage of your confidence. I came only to ask you to think of me no more—to forgive me, if possible, and—."
"And," returned Clair; "can you forgive me for my former trifling."
"Not quite, for had you not trifled, I might have spared you some pain now. But you do forgive me," she said, extending her hand, and their eyes met for the first time.