And, oh!" she continued, rising suddenly, and, putting aside the tresses that veiled her face, she fixed her eyes upon the questioner,--"and, oh! whoever thou art that thus wouldst read my soul and shape my future, do not mistake the sentiment that, that--" she faltered an instant, and went on with downcast eyes,--"that has fascinated my thoughts to thee.

Do not think that I could nourish a love unsought and unreturned.

It is not love that I feel for thee, stranger.
Why should I?
Thou hast never spoken to me but to admonish,--and now, to wound!" Again she paused, again her voice faltered; the tears trembled on her eyelids; she brushed them away and resumed.

"No, not love,--if that be love which I have heard and read of, and sought to simulate on the stage,--but a more solemn, fearful, and, it seems to me, almost preternatural attraction, which makes me associate thee, waking or dreaming, with images that at once charm and awe.

Thinkest thou, if it were love, that I could speak to thee thus; that," she raised her looks suddenly to his, "mine eyes could thus search and confront thine own?
Stranger, I ask but at times to see, to hear thee! Stranger, talk not to me of others.