Allan  paused  in  speechless  astonishment  at  the  conclusion  of
this  unaccountable  communication,  and,  disguised  as  the  hand-
writing evidently  was,  he  felt  an  unconquerable  conviction  that  he
had  seen  it  before. Gradually  his  assurance. became  doubly  sure,
that  the  author  of  this  letter  was  Father  Eustace,  and  a  dim  idea
crossed  his  mind  of  what  his  uncle  had  said  and  suspected  formerly,
concerning  an  interest  stronger  than  could  be  easily  accounted  for
having  been  betrayed  by  that  Jesuit  priest  in  the  fate  and  fortunes
of  Beatrice,  when  a  child ;  and  his  whole  thoughts  became  ab-^
sorbed  in  reviving  the  circumstances,  till  recalled  to  himself  again
by  the  voice  of  his  much-loved  companion,  saying,  in  accents
quivering  with  emotion,  ^  Delay  it  as  we  may,  Allan,  the  moment
of  saying  our  long  farewell  must  come  at  last. Let  us  hope  that
it  is  not  for  ever ;  but  who  can  tell  ?  *

*  One  thing  I  do  know,  Beatrice,  that  worlds  shall  not  induce
me  to  relinquish  you,'  replied  Allan,  in  a  tone  of  good-humored
obstinacy ;  *  and  as  it  is  not  in  your  nature  to  be  fickle  or  faith-
less, what  then  can  prevent  our  future  happiness  together }  *

*  Think  not  of  that,'  replied  Beatrice,  in  a  voice  low  and  husky
with  grief ;  *  I  must  not — dare  not  listen  to  you,  Allan. Bro-
therly aflfection  I  may  cherish  and  do  value  from  you ;  but  any
dearer  or  happier  hopes  must  for  ever  be  denied  to  an  outcast  like
myself,  without  a  name  or  a  relative. I  am  thankful  to  have  you
for  a  brother,  Allan,  but  my  castle  of  cards  must  not  be  built  a
story  higher,  or  it  will  fall  in  ruins  at  my  feet,  and  I  should  feel
that  I  deserved  it.*

*  Then,  Beatrice,  you  cannot  love  me  as  I  love  you,  or  a  whole
legion  of  Father  Eustaces  could  not  induce  you  to  make  such  a
resolution. It  is  all  very  amiable  and  sensible,  perhaps,  but  it  is
not  love.*

*  Yes,  Allan,  it  is ;  but  ours  must  be,  while  I  continue  a  name-
less foundling,  only  a  forbidden  love,*  said  Beatrice,  clasping  her
hands  over  her  face,  in  speechless  grief. *  Go,  Allan,  to  your
father,  and  forget  one  who  has  no  father. 