‘Truly it is pleasant; I feel it so. And to see health on your cheek, and hope in your eye, is pleasant, Cary. But what is this hope, and what is the source of this sunshine I perceive about you?’

‘For one thing, I am happy in mamma; I love her so much, and she loves me. Long and tenderly she nursed me; now, when her care has made me well, I can occupy myself for and with her all the day. I say it is my turn to attend to her, and I do attend to her; I am her waiting-woman as well as her child. I like— you would laugh if you knew what pleasure I have in making dresses and sewing for her. She looks so nice now, Robert; I will not let her be old-fashioned. And then she is charming to talk to—full of wisdom, ripe in judgment, rich in information, exhaustless in stores her observant faculties have quietly amassed. Every day that I live with her I like her better; I esteem her more highly; I love her more tenderly.’

‘That for one thing, then, Cary; you talk in such a way about “mamma,” it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady.’

‘She is not old, Robert.’

‘Of the young lady, then.’

‘She does not pretend to be young.’

‘Well—of the matron. But you said “mamma’s” affection was one thing that made you happy: now for the other thing.’

‘I am glad you are better.’

‘What besides?’

‘I am glad we are friends.’

‘You and I?’

‘Yes; I once thought we never should be.’

‘Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit, and, consequently, will not please you.’

‘Ah!—don’t! I cannot bear to think ill of you.’

‘And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve.’

‘Well, but I half know your “thing”; indeed, I believe I know all about it.’

‘You do not.’

‘I believe I do.’

‘Whom does it concern besides me?’

She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.

‘Speak, Cary!—whom does it concern?’

She tried to utter a name and could not.

‘Tell me; there is none present but ourselves; be frank.’

‘But if I guess wrong?’