tation and disorder;
and a breath, a nothing had brought the restless waves upon the quiet
surface. Through the kindness of Mr Fairman, my evenings had been almost
invariably passed in the society of himself and his daughter. The lads
were early risers, and retired, on that account, at a very early hour to
rest. Upon their dismission, I had been requested to join the company in
the drawing-room. This company included sometimes Doctor Mayhew, the
neighbouring squire, or a chance visitor, but consisted oftenest only of
the incumbent and his daughter. Aware of the friendly motive which
suggested the request, I obeyed it with alacrity. On these occasions,
Miss Fairman used her pencil, whilst I read aloud; or she would ply her
needle, and soothe at intervals her father's ear with strains of music,
which he, for many reasons, loved to hear. Once or twice the incumbent
had been called away, and his child and I were left together. I had no
reason to be silent whilst the good minister was present, yet I found
that I could speak more confidently and better when he was absent. We
conversed with freedom and unrestraint. I found the maiden's mind well
stored--her voice was not more sweet than was her understanding clear
and cloudless. Books had been her joy, which, in the season of
suffering, had been my consolation. They were a common source of
pleasure. She spoke of them with feeling, and I could understand her. I
regarded her with deep unfeigned respect; but, the evening over, I took
my leave, as I had come--in peace. Miss Fairman left the parsonage to
pay a two-days' visit at a house in the vicinity. Until the evening of
the first day I was not sensible of her absence. It was then, and at the
customary hour of our reunion, that, for the first time, I experienced,
with alarm, a sense of loneliness and desertion--that I became
tremblingly conscious of the secret growth of an affection that had
waited only for the time and circumstance to make its presence and its
power known and dreaded. In the daily enjoyment of her society, I had
not estimated its influence and value. Once denied it, and I dared not
acknowledge to myself how precious it had become, how silently and
fatally it had wrought upon my heart. The impropriety and folly of
self-indulgence were at once apparent--yes, the vanity and
wickedness--and, startled by what looked like guilt, I determined
manfully to rise superior to temptation. I took refuge in my books; they
lack