"She must be loyal Tory, indeed," was Ellen's comment, "or else she knew you less than her opportunities permitted, for she risked her happiness most rashly."
"Her happiness was little at stake, I have thought since; had she truly loved me she would have prized my honor more."
"She is fair and very winsome, did you say?"
"Yes; her manner wins you whether you will or no, and her beauty is of a kind to bewitch—to lead a man on like a swamp light, till, before he realizes his danger, he is hopelessly entangled."
"Would she not resume her sway over you were you to see her again?"
A throb of joy set my blood bounding at this question. Did it not suggest a twinge of jealousy in Ellen's heart? And the thought modified my answer somewhat.
"Can a man ever measure the influence of a woman's beauty and fascination upon him? Miss Buford bewitched me once; she might be able to do so again—unless my heart had some firm anchor to hold by."
Ellen sighed lightly, "I wish you had been born a Catholic, Cousin Donald."
"Or you a Protestant, sweet Ellen."
Her eyes did not answer the playful smile in mine, nor did she, as usual, chide my endearment; instead, she sighed lightly again, and looked dreamily at the water, breaking about our boat in golden ripples under the slanting rays of a declining sun. "It were a difficult thing for a Catholic to be happy in the valley, Donald."