“Would that we could, Mr. Huyton, so far as you are concerned,” replied she, gravely; “but the wish is idle and vain! we are what we have made ourselves, and feelings, words, actions, can never, never be recalled. Would that it were possible to begin anew our acquaintance!”
“I would still be your friend, Hilary,” said he, in a more
gentle voice; “may I not be that, may I not sometimes see you on these terms?”
“I believe you would; I know you are generous and noble; I can not forget your words last night, and I can honor the feeling that dictated them.”
A flash of joy passed across his face at these words, and fixing his eyes on her, he said:
“And may I hope that you will still see me, receive me as a friend—let me sometimes visit your father, sometimes converse with you?”
She shook her head. “Not now; not under present circumstances.”
“Not for your father’s sake? he loves me, you know,” said he, persuasively.
“I dare not.”
“Dare not! which then is it that you will not trust, my honor or yours, Hilary?” There was a shadow gathering on his brow.