helming power. But I mastered
it. I kept it to myself. That is, as far as words were concerned. For
the expression of his face, for involuntary glances, no man can be held
responsible.

I kept it to myself,--or tried to do so; for I wasn't sure--of anything.
Emily's words, "I fear," came to me with deep meaning. For, if the
goodness of David, if the fascinations of Warren Luce had effected
nothing, what could I hope?

And was I sure about this last, about Warren? He was in the place.
Emily's sickness only had kept him away. I reviewed myself to myself,
overhauled whatever virtues or failings I knew of as belonging to me.

Nothing very satisfactory resulted. But I remembered what the old man
said to Miss Joey, "Love'll go where 'tis sent," and took courage. Eight
or ten years older. I wonder if she would mind that?

Day after day passed, and my secret still burned within me. It must
shine out of my eyes, I thought. But then, since Emily's death, I had
seen Mary Ellen much less frequently. She kept mostly with her mother,
on their own side of the house.

But the time that was foreordained from the beginning of the world for
the bursting-forth of my secret came at last.

It was a month after Emily's death. I happened to come home in the
evening unusually early. 'Twas exactly such a night as the one on which
I tried to sound the depths of a young girl's heart, and failed. If she
would only come out in the moonlight again, and let me try once more!

As I passed the orchard, my heart gave a great leap, for she was
there,--she and Miss Joey, carrying in a great basket of apples. I
seized her side of the basket with one hand, and with the other grasped
hers so earnestly that she fairly started: I was so glad to see her!

I led her along to the house, and then led her back, until we came to
the same little step on the fence,--with full faith, now, that it would
be given me in this hour what to say.

I seated her exactly as she was before, with the moon shining full in
her face. Then I took my stand, leaning against the fence, just the
same. How beautiful she was in the moonlight!

"And is there anybody," said I, as if continuing the conversation, "that
you do love as Jane did?"

My voice, though, was far less steady than at the other time.

"Mr. Turner," she exclaimed, starting up, with flashing eyes and glowing
cheeks, "you've no right to ask me such a question!"

That blushing by moonlight! It was too much to be