"Miss Tessa, my mother believes in me."

"I know that."

"You do not weigh my words sufficiently. They do not mean enough to you."

"Is that so very strange?"

"Yes, it is strange when I tell you that I know I was a fool! When I tell you that I have repented in dust and ashes. I did not understand you, nor myself, a year ago-I am dull about understanding people. I think that I am not quick about any thing; I can not make a quick reply; I have labored at my studies; I was not brilliant in school or college; I am very slow, but I am very _sure_. If you had been as slow as I, our friendship would never have had its break; you were too quick for me; but you understood me long before I understood myself; I did not understand myself until I was withdrawn from you. Do you believe that?"

"Yes, I believe it. But you should have waited until you _did_ understand."

"It is rather tough work for a man to confess himself a fool."

Tessa said nothing.

"I do not ask to be excused, I ask to be forgiven; to be borne with.

Will you be patient with me?"

"I do not know how to be patient. I am too quick. I have been very bitter and unjust towards you; I judged you as if you were as quick as I am; I have even wished you dead; it does not do for us to be in a cla.s.s together."

"Not in the short run; we haven't tried the long run yet, and you are afraid to do that?"

"I suppose I am. I am afraid of something; I think that I am afraid of myself."

"If you are not afraid of me, I do not care what you are afraid of."

"I am not afraid of you-now."

"Then if you do-reject me, it is because you are not satisfied with your heart toward me?"

"Yes, that will be the reason," she said slowly.

"And none other?"

"There is no reason in yourself; now that you have seen how you were wrong; the reason will all be in myself."

"Are you coming any nearer to an understanding with yourself?" he asked quietly.

He had spoken in this same tone to a patient, a little child, not two hours since.

The tone touched her more deeply than the words.

"I do not know. I am trying not to reason. I have worn myself out with reasoning. You are very still, but I know that this time is terrible to you; as terrible as last year was to me! Believe me, I am not lightly keeping you in suspense. Truly I can not decide. There is some hindrance; I do not know what it is."

"I do not wish to hurry you; you shall have a year to decide if you prefer. It is very sudden to you; you need time and quiet to recover from the shock; you are very much shaken. You are not as strong as you were two years ago. The strain has been too great for you; when you have decided once for all time and all eternity, your eyes will look as they looked two years ago. All I ask you is be _sure_ of _yourself_! I promise not to trouble you for a year; I am sorry to be troubling you now. Are you very unhappy?"

She was trembling and almost crying.

"You shall not answer me, or think of answering me until you are ready; I deserve to suffer; I do not fear the issue of your self-a.n.a.lysis; when you have recovered from the shock and can _feel_ that you have forgiven me, then you will know whether you love me, whether you trust me. Will you write to me?"

"No, sir."

He laughed in spite of his vexation; she resented the laugh; he was altogether too sure of his power.

"You must not be so sure," she began.

"I shall be just as sure as-_you_ please."

"You think that I am very perplexing."

"You are full of freaks and whims; you are a Mystic. Dr. Lake truly named you. I used to think you a bundle of impulses, and now I find you sternly adhering to a principle. If your whim be founded on principle, and I verily believe it is, I honor you even when I am laughing at you."

"Don't laugh at me; I am too miserable to bear that. Be patient with me as if I were ill."

"You are not strong enough to go from home. If you do not feel well, will you write for me to come and bring you home?"

"I am well enough."

"Promise me, please."

"I can not promise," she answered decidedly.

They were neither of them in a mood for further talk; she felt more at rest than she had felt for two years; there was nothing to think of, nothing to be hurried about; she had a whole year to be happy in, and then-she would be happy then, too. As for him-she could not see his face, for they had turned into the cross-road, thickly wooded, that opened into the clearing before the gates of Old Place.

He spoke to his horse in his usual tone, "Gently, Charlie." He stooped to wrap the robe more closely about her feet; as he raised himself, she slipped her ungloved hand into his. "Don't be troubled about me, I will not be troubled; I will not reason; but don't be sure; perhaps when the year is over I shall not be satisfied."

"Then you must take another year."

"You will not be so patient with me another year; I shall not take another year."

"Tessa, you are a goose; but you are a darling, nevertheless."

"You do not understand me," she said, withdrawing her hand.

"I am too humble to expect ever to do that. You have never seen our home. Is it too late to go over the place to-night?"

"I will go with your mother some time; she has described every room to me."

"Who is that fellow that you were engaged to?"

"He is not a fellow."

"Who is he?"

"Felix Harrison."

"Ah!" Then after a pause, "Tell me the whole story."

The whole story was not long; she began with his school-boy love, speaking in short sentences, words and tone becoming more intense as she went on