nothing so that you are mine, if but for one hour."
It seems that, despite the strange, sometimes the unlover-like and fiercely selfish nature of these letters from Brandon, something of a genuine tone of passion,—perhaps their originality,—aided, no doubt, by some uttered eloquence of the writer, and some treacherous inclination on the part of the mistress, ultimately conquered; and that an union, so little likely to receive the smile of a prosperous star, was at length concluded. The letter which terminated the correspondence was from Brandon: it was written on the evening before the marriage, which, it appeared by the same letter, was to be private and concealed. After a rapturous burst of hope and joy, it continued thus:
"Yes, Julia, I recant my words: I have no belief that you or I shall ever have cause hereafter for unhappiness. Those eyes that dwelt so tenderly on mine; that hand whose pressure lingers yet in every nerve of my frame; those lips turned so coyly—yet, shall I say, reluctantly?—from me—all tell me that you love me—and my fears are banished. Love, which conquered my
