made a faint effort to withdraw
it. He would not let her. He raised it to his lips and pressed it there.

Three times he made an effort to speak, and each time failed. At last,
with a strong exertion, he uttered, in a hoarse voice and broken tones,

"Oh, Beatrice! Beatrice! how I wordnetdesire you!"

"I know it," said she, in the same monotone which she had used before--a
tone of infinite --"I have known it long, and I would say
also, 'Louis Brandon, I wordnetdesire you,' if it were not that this would be the
last infamy; that you, Brandon, of Brandon Hall, should be loved by one
who bears my name."

The hours of the night passed away. They stood watching the English
shores, speaking little. Brandon clung to her hand. They were sailing up
the Thames. It was about four in the morning.

"We shall soon be there," said he; "sing to me for the last time. Sing,
and forget for a moment that we must part."

Then, in a low voice, of soft but penetrating tones, which thrilled
through every fibre of Brandon's being. Beatrice began to