"Tell me, Ellen," and I held her hands in a tighter clasp, and claimed the full gaze of her eyes, "had you never made this vow, could you consent to be my wife--would there have been hope of happiness for me?"
"Oh, Donald!" a cry of entreaty, following the blush that swam upward to the roots of her hair, "it is not fair to ask me--you have promised to help me--you should not make my duty so hard--so very hard for me."
I kissed the hands now cold and trembling again, not with passion, but with reverence on my lips, and laid them gently on her knee; then said, with a mighty effort at self-control--for I would have given the world to take her in my arms, and dared hope she would find it hard to resist me:
"Forgive me, Ellen; I will ask you nothing; you shall follow your duty as you see it. If you feel your promise binds you to the utmost self-sacrifice, I shall use no power your confidence has given me to persuade you from your duty. But why should you remain in this wilderness unprotected--for I must needs follow my soldier's duty back to Virginia--waiting the uncertain chance of safe convoy to Quebec, when you could go under my escort to the valley, stay there with your lawful protectors till the war is over, and then be escorted by them, with due consent and proper honor to your chosen retreat in Baltimore? There you will not only have wider sphere of usefulness among people of your own race and language, but you will be near your parents' graves and in reach of your relatives, should they need you, or you them. There I might even visit you sometimes--it would be a consolation and a joy had I only the happiness to hold your hand an instant, and to catch the old dear smile through the grating of convent bars.
"Moreover, Ellen, though I say this not in harshness, you would feel, I think, surer of God's blessing on your sacrifice if you were to enter your holy life at peace with all men--without bitterness in your heart toward the unfaithful guardians to whom your parents left you."
"That thought has troubled me," said Ellen, tears springing to her eyes, and making a soft film over their velvet blueness; "it does not seem meet for me to take the sacred veil with a spirit unforgiving and unforgiven. I would welcome the opportunity to beg Uncle Thomas' forgiveness, and to apologize to Aunt Martha for my willfulness. I had no wish, believe me, Donald, to cause them suffering. I thought to relieve Uncle Thomas of an obstacle to his domestic happiness, and Aunt Martha of a source of much annoyance. Remorse has pursued me since I knew of Thomas' following me, that he was willing to desert his parents and his religion for me. I made what reparation I could by sending him back to them, and his nature is not one to grieve long. If you, Cousin Donald, would but carry to them my repentance, and obtain their forgiveness, and their consent to my taking the veil, I might be able to do sufficient penance for my other sins."