"
A flush of fire passed over the face of the listener, and she raised her
eyes, flashing with an ungovernable look of delight, to the countenance
of Isabella; but the ruin she beheld recalled better feelings, and again
her head dropped upon the covering of the bed. Isabella watched her
emotion with a look that partook both of pity and admiration.
"Such have been the feelings that I have escaped," she continued. "Yes,
Miss Wharton, Dunwoodie is wholly yours."
"Be just to yourself, my sister," exclaimed the youth; "let no romantic
generosity cause you to forget your own character."
She heard him, and fixed a gaze of tender interest on his face, but
slowly shook her head as she replied,--
"It is not romance, but truth, that bids me speak. Oh! how much have I
lived within an hour! Miss Wharton, I was born under a burning sun, and
my feelings seem to have imbibed its warmth; I have existed for
passion only."
"Say not so--say not so, I implore you," cried the agitated brother.
"Think how devoted has been your love to our aged father; how
disinterested, how tender, your affection to me!"
"Yes," said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure beaming on her
countenance, "that, at least, is a reflection which may be taken to
the grave."
Neither Frances nor her brother interrupted her meditations, which
continued for several minutes; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she
continued,--
"I remain selfish even to the last; with me, Miss Wharton, America and
her liberties were my earliest passion, and--" Again she paused, and
Frances thought it was the struggle of death that followed; but
reviving, she proceeded, "Why should I hesitate, on the brink of the
grave! Dunwoodie was my next and my last.
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