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Rh whole life is bound up in yours: she will die, Courtenaye—die of a broken heart." "You press me too hardly," exclaimed her son; "there is one as young—and oh, how fair!—who has intrusted her destiny to my keeping. I have sought in vain the opportunity of telling you—of imploring your consent: I do now. I cannot marry my cousin, for I love another." "Oh, Norbourne! oh, my own beloved child!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtenaye, wringing her hands with a passionate gesture of entreaty,—"have you no love for me? This affection is of but a few months' growth: will you weigh it against that which has cherished you for years? My son, have pity upon your mother! I will never consent to your marrying any but your cousin—for my sake consent." "My dearest mother," cried Norbourne, "is it possible that wordly advantages can so far blind your judgment? Do you know what it is to love—to feel how unutterably dear the presence of another can be—to know that all life could offer were valueless without