“You were not always so sternly resolute, Hilary!”
“Nor you so—” she stopped.
“So what? speak out, say what you mean at once,” said he, advancing close to her.
“No, I shall not,” replied she, more gently; “I am sure that you do not wish to give me pain, and that this unpleasant topic will be dropped henceforth.”
“But do you not pity me?” ejaculated he, seating himself again by her side, and clasping her hand so firmly that she could not withdraw it.
“Yes.”
“And nothing more, Hilary? esteem, regard, kindly feelings, are all these gone, or did you never entertain them toward me?”
“You did not ask for these, Mr. Huyton; you asked for love, which alone I could not give.”
“Are you sure?” said he, gazing intently at her. “Are you certain that it is not pride of consistency, or ignorance of your own feelings which misleads you? Do you know what love is, Hilary?”
“I do,” said she, in desperation, resolved, even at the risk of raising an indignant jealousy, which she instinctively dreaded, to end his painful importunity. “I know what love is, and that I do not feel it for you.”