THE SMUGGLER. 331 



hearts can go on long, holding such intimate and secret com- 

 munion, on subjects deeply interesting to both, without being 

 drawn together by closer bonds, than perhaps they fancy can 

 ever be established between them, unless there be something 

 inherently repulsive on one part or the other. Propinquity is 

 certainly much, in the matter of love ; but there are circum- 

 stances, not rarely occurring in human life, which mightily 

 abridge the process; and such are, difficulties and dangers 

 experienced together, a common struggle for a common object, 

 but more than all, mutual and secret communion with, and 

 aid of each other in things of deep interest. The confidence 

 that is required, the excitement of imagination, the unity of 

 effort, and of purpose, the rapid exercise of mind to catch the 

 half-uttered thought, the enforced candour from want of time, 

 which admits of no disguise or circumlocution, the very mystery 

 itself, all cast that magic chain around those so circumstanced, 

 within which they can hardly escape from the power of love. 

 Nine times out of ten, they never try; and, however Zara 

 Croyland might feel, she rose willingly enough to sing, while 

 Sir Edward Digby leaned over her chair, as she sat at the 

 instrument, which in those days supplied the place of that 

 which is now absurdly enough termed in England, a piano. 

 Her voice, which was fine, though not very powerful, wavered 

 a little as she began, from emotions of many kinds. She 

 wished to sing well, but she sang worse than she might have 

 done, yet quite well enough to please Sir Edward Digby, 

 though his ear was refined by art, and good by nature. 

 Nevertheless, though he listened with delight, and felt the 

 music deeply, he forgot not his purpose, and between each 

 stanza asked some question, obtaining a brief reply. But I will 

 not so interrupt the course of an old song, and will give the 

 interrogatory a separate place : 



THE LADY'S SONG. 



" Oli! there may be many, many griefs, 



In this world's sad career, 

 That shun the day, that fly the gaze, 

 And never, never meet the ear. 



But what is darkest, darkest of them all ? 



The pang of love betray'd ; 

 The hopes of youth all fleeting by; 



Spring flowers that early, early fade? 



