not say of what I was thinking."

"Nay, but you must," said he, gently, and drawing his chair closer.

"I dare not--I cannot--besides, you "--and there was on the pronoun the
very softest of all-dwelling intonation--"_you_ might be angry--might
never forgive me."

"Now I must insist on your telling me," said Roland, passionately, "if
but to show how unfairly you judge me."

"Well," said she, drawing a long breath--"but shall I trust you?"

There was a most winning archness in the way she said this, that
thrilled through Cashel as he listened. "No, I will not," added she,
suddenly, and as if carried away by a passionate impulse; "you are
too--"

"Too what?" cried he, impatiently.

"Too fickle," said she; and then, as if terrified at her own boldness,
she added, in a tremulous voice, "Oh, do forgive me!"

"There is really nothing to forgive," said Roland, "unless you persist
in keeping from me an avowal that I almost fancy I have a right to ask
for. And now, of what were you thinking?"

"I 'll tell you," said she, in a low, earnest accent, "though it may
lose me your esteem. I was thinking"--her voice here fell so low that
Cashel, to hear her words, was obliged to draw his chair closer, and
bend down his head till it actually brushed against the leaves she wore
in her hair--"I was thinking that, when we knew you first, before you
had made acquaintance with others, when you sat and read to us, when we
walked and rode together,--when, in short, the day was one bright dream
of pleasure to us, who had never known a brother--"

Pardon us, dear reader, if, at so critical a moment, we occupy the
pause which here ensued--and there was a pause--by referring to our
Aunt Fanny, only premising that we do so advisedly. It was one of
that excellent lady's firmest convictions that every one in the world
required some discreet friend, who should, at eventful passages in life,
be ready to aid, by presence of mind, a wavering resolve, or confirm a
half-formed determination. Now, she had waited for two mortal hours on
that day for Cashel's coming, in a state of impatience little short of
fever. She opened and shut her window, looked up one avenue and down
another; she had watched on the landing, and stood sentinel on the
stairs; she had seen Mrs. Kenny-feck and her elder daughter pass
out into the garden, weary of long waiting; when, at last, she heard
Roland's hasty step as he traversed the hall, and, hurrying upstairs,
entere