silence.
Paul was then about to wish the other good night, when John Effingham
seized his hand, and by a gentle effort induced him to resume his
seat. An embarrassing, but short pause succeeded, when the latter
spoke.

"We have suffered enough in company, and have seen each other in
situations of sufficient trial to be friends," he said. "I should
feel mortified, did I believe you could think me influenced by an
improper curiosity, in wishing to share more of your confidence than
you are perhaps willing to bestow; I trust you will attribute to its
right motive the liberty I am now taking. Age makes some difference
between us, and the sincere and strong interest I feel in your
welfare, ought to give me a small claim not to be treated as a total
stranger. So jealous and watchful has this interest been, I might
with great truth call it affection, that I have discovered you are
not situated exactly as other men in your condition of life are
situated, and feel persuaded that the sympathy, perhaps the advice,
of one so many years older than yourself, might be useful. You have
already said so much to me, on the subject of your personal
situation, that I almost feel a right to ask for more."

John Effingham uttered this in his mildest and most winning manner;
and few men could carry with them, on such an occasion, more of
persuasion in their voices and looks. Paul's features worked, and it
was evident to his companion that he was moved, while, at the same
time, he was not displeased.

"I am grateful, deeply grateful, sir, for this interest in my
happiness," Paul answered, "and if I knew the particular points on
which you feel any curiosity, there is nothing that I can desire to
conceal. Have the further kindness to question me, Mr. Effingham,
that I need not touch on things you do not care to hear."

"All that really concerns your welfare, would have interest with me.
You have been the agent of rescuing not only myself, but those whom I
most love, from a fate worse than death; and, a childless bachelor
myself, I have more than once thought of attempting to supply the
places of those natural friends that I fear you have lost. Your
parents--"

"Are both dead. I never knew either," said Paul, who spoke huskily,
"and will most cheerfully accept your generous offer, if you will
allow me to attach to it a single condition."

"Beggars must not be choosers," returned John Effingham, "and if you
will allow me to feel this inte