But, oh! 'twas torture to my breast,
To meet thine alter'd eye,
To see thee smile on all the rest,
Yet coldly pass me by.
Even now, when ev'ry hope is o'er
To which I. . . .
"Are these poetical effusions ended?" said a soft voice from behind.—She started; and turning round, beheld the figure of a man enveloped in a dark military cloak, waiting for her upon the cliff.—"What a night it is! not a wave on the calm sea: not a cloud in the Heavens. See how the mountain is tinged with the bright moonshine. Are you not chilled—are you not weary; wandering thus alone?" "I am prepared to follow you," said Elinor, "though not as a mistress, yet as a slave." "I do not love you," said the man, approaching her. "Oh, even if you were to hang about and kneel to me as once, I cannot love you! Yet it once was pleasant to be so loved; was it
