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 here, in a country where you would never feel at home? Would my love, infinite as it is, always suffice to fill up your solitary existence here? No, sir,” concluded she, while tears started into her eyes; “no: this flattering dream I have abandoned; for I may now confess that I have dreamt it too. I had built upon it the fondest wishes of my heart; but all—all have sunk into an unfathomable abyss, to perish for ever! For ever! My friend, my dear friend, that thought is terrible!”

“To-morrow,” replied I, moved to the bottom of my soul by this address, “I will speak to your father.”

Now that I had the confession of her love, no power on earth could have parted me from this angel. We formed a hundred plans, and relinquished them all. We sat till late on the bench, happier than many a monarch on his throne. As we went home, she repeated my name to the mountains, that, as she said, they might not forget it. I called her name, which the rocks beyond the clover-pastures re-echoed four, five, and even six times; at first distinctly, Mimili, then mili and ili, till at last li, li, li, alone faintly resounded in the distance.

“You have no mountains,” said she, with a sorrowful smile: “when you call my name in your country, the wind that sweeps your plains will blow it away; nothing will repeat my name