nly. No intimacy which may
exist between myself and your connexion, Dr. Grantly, could justify
it. Nor could the acquaintance which existed between ourselves." This
word acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this to be her
doom after all? "I therefore think it right to beg your pardon in a
humble spirit, and I now do so."

What was Eleanor to say to him? She could not say much because she
was crying, and yet she must say something. She was most anxious to
say that something graciously, kindly, and yet not in such a manner
as to betray herself. She had never felt herself so much at a loss
for words.

"Indeed, I took no offence, Mr. Arabin."

"Oh, but you did! And had you not done so, you would not have been
yourself. You were as right to be offended as I was wrong so to
offend you. I have not forgiven myself, but I hope to hear that you
forgive me."

She was now past speaking calmly, though she still continued to hide
her tears; and Mr. Arabin, after pausing a moment in vain for her
reply, was walking off towards the door. She felt that she could not
allow him to go unanswered without grievously sinning against all
charity; so, rising from her seat, she gently touched his arm and
said, "Oh, Mr. Arabin, do not go till I speak to you! I do forgive
you. You know that I forgive you."

He took the hand that had so gently touched his arm and then gazed
into her face as if he would peruse there, as though written in a
book, the whole future destiny of his life; as he did so, there was
a sober, sad seriousness in his own countenance which Eleanor found
herself unable to sustain. She could only look down upon the carpet,
let her tears trickle as they would, and leave her hand within his.

It was but for a minute that they stood so, but the duration of that
minute was sufficient to make it ever memorable to them both. Eleanor
was sure now that she was loved. No words, be their eloquence what it
might, could be more impressive than that eager, melancholy gaze.

Why did he look so into her eyes? Why did he not speak to her? Could
it be that he looked for her to make the first sign?

And he, though he knew but little of women, even he knew that he
was loved. He had only to ask, and it would be all his own, that
inexpressible loveliness, those ever-speaking but yet now mute eyes,
that feminine brightness and eager, loving spirit which had so
attracted him since first he had encountered it at St. Ewold's. It
might