yself to confess, so great was my fear
of being parted from him.

Some time before that evening when I first met you in London, I went to
see some friends of Arthur's. During that time, for several months, I
had not seen Mr. or Mrs. Hill; but in the meanwhile Mrs. Hill had
written to me of their intention of coming here to Hillsbro', saying
that Mr. Hill's new agent had written such cheerful accounts of the
estate, that he felt a longing to be on the spot, giving encouragement
to the improvements which were going forward. She did not mention the
name of the new agent, and it was only on that evening when I first met
you, when with shame and bitter self-reproach I heard you defend my poor
mother so valiantly, it was only then I knew that the agent was my
brother, and that I was actually coming to live within a few miles of my
deserted home.

My first thought was that now, indeed, the time for making all the
crooked things straight had come; but, oh Margery, you cannot imagine,
one like you never could imagine anything so wickedly weak as I am. The
old bugbear of our family disgrace, the old terror of Arthur's throwing
me off in disgust, rose up again with all their former strength, and I
came here torn by conflicting feelings. You saw my meeting with John.
The next day, when he came here to dine, I found an opportunity of
telling him my story. He was very severe with me at first, though not so
much so as I deserved; but he forgave me at last, on condition that I
would make up my mind to be honest with every one, let the consequences
be what they might. I promised this; but again and again my courage has
failed. He has been so good, so kind, so patient with me. He told me of
my mother, of the children, of you, and, oh, how he chafed at the
thought of what you would feel about the affair. Every time we met he
reproached me with my cowardice and delay, and I made fresh promises;
but Arthur's letters invariably broke down my courage and destroyed my
resolutions. Again and again John has asked me to allow him to tell you
who I was, but I would not suffer it. I could see no reason for humbling
myself sooner to you than to anyone else, until one day it flashed on me
that you were jealous of me. Then, after a hard struggle, I came to you
to tell my story. You repulsed me, you even assured me that the Tyrrells
were your best friends. I was glad of the excuse to spare myself and my
secret. And so it has gone on. Latterly John has