were too well feigned to permit the lady to suspect them. "The
bitterness of a blighted hope were better than the agony of suspense."

A smile of pity and contempt rested upon the fair face of the lady, as
she turned her glance from him to the papers on the table. There lay
Maxwell's letter, with the envelope in which she had returned it! She
only pointed to it, and looked into his face to read the shame and
confusion her discovery must create.

Maxwell's pallid cheek reddened, as he perceived that his deceit was
exposed; but he instantly recovered his self-possession, and said,

"Pardon this little subterfuge. I permitted myself to descend to it,
that I might gain a moment's time to plead with you for the heart which
is wasting away beneath your coldness. You do not, you cannot, know the
misery I have endured in possessing the love upon which you so cruelly
frown."

The passionate eloquence of Maxwell might have melted a heart less firm
than that of Emily Dumont. As it was, the cold expression of contempt
left her features, and, if not disposed to listen with favor to his
suit, she was softened into pity for his assumed misery. Under any other
circumstances, the lie he had a moment before uttered would have forever
condemned him in her sight. But her charitable disposition compelled her
to believe that it was the last resort of a mind on the verge of
despair.

"Mr. Maxwell," said she, "I am deeply grieved that you should have
suffered any unhappiness on my account."