Her pulse beat high, her cheek burned, and her eye flashed with more than its usual fire and overpowering brilliancy, and, with the exception of one impression alone, all her thoughts were so rapid and indistinct as to resemble the careering clouds which fly in tumult and confusion along the troubled sky, with nothing stationary but the sun far above, and which, in this case, might be said to resemble the bright conviction of Dalton's love for her, that Mave's assurance had left behind it.

On re-entering the cabin, without being properly conscious of what she either did or said, she once more knelt by the side of Dalton's bed, and hastily taking his unresisting hand, was about to speak; but a difficulty how to shape her language held her in a painful and troubled suspense for some moments, during which Dalton could plainly perceive the excitement, or rather rapture, by which she was actuated.

At length a gush of hot and burning tears enabled her to speak, and she said: "Con Dalton--dear Con, is it true?
can it be true ?--oh, no--no--but, then, she says it--is it true that you like me--like me!--no, no--that word is too wake--is it true that you love me?
but no--it can't be--there never was so much happiness intended for me; and then, if it should be true--oh, if it was possible, how will I bear it?
what will I do?
what--is to be the consequence?
for my love for you is beyond all belief--beyond all that tongue can tell.

I can't stand this struggle--my head is giddy--I scarcely know what I'm sayin', or is it a dhrame that I'll waken from, and find it false--false ?" Dalton pressed her hand, and looking tenderly upon her face, replied: "Dear Sarah, forgive me; your dhrame is both thrue and false.

It is true that I like you--that I pity you; but you forbid me to say that--well it is true, I say, that I like you; but I can't say more.