once taken his mother's place at his bedside; but Herbert
found little pleasure in their attentions, for he said to himself, "If
they knew all my presumption, they would be less kind."

His illness passed away, his hand healed, and he resumed his accustomed
avocations; but no invitation, however urgent, could win him again to
the house of Mr. Cavendish. "I have proved my own weakness--I will not
place myself again in the way of temptation," was the language of his
heart. Apologies became awkward. He felt that he must seem to his friend
ungracious if not ungrateful; and one day observing unusual seriousness
in the countenance of Mr. Cavendish on his declining an invitation to
dine with him, he exclaimed, "You look displeased, and I can hardly
wonder at it; but could you know my reason for denying myself the
pleasure of visiting you, I am sure you would think me right."

"Perhaps so; but as I do not know it, you cannot be surprised that your
determined withdrawal from our circle should wound both my feelings and
those of my family."

Herbert covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, and then turning
them with a grave and even sad expression on Mr. Cavendish, said, "I
have declined your invitations only because I could not accept them with
honor: I love your daughter--I have loved her almost from the first hour
of my acquaintance with her."

"And why have you not told me so before, Herbert?" asked Mr. Cavendish,
with no anger in his tones.

"Because I believed myself capable of loving in silence, and while I
wronged no one, I was willing to indulge in the sweet poison of her
society; but a moment of danger to her destroyed my self-control. What
has been may be again--I have learned to distrust myself--I cannot
tamper with temptation, lest I should one day use the position in which
you have placed me, and the advantages which you have bestowed on me, in
endeavoring to win from you a treasure which you may well be reluctant
to yield to me."

"Herbert, I only blame you for not having spoken to me sooner of this."

"I feel now that I should have done so--it was a want of
self-knowledge, the rash confidence of one untried which kept me
silent."

"No, Herbert--it was a want of knowledge of me--of confidence in my
justice--I will not say my kindness. What higher views do you suppose I
can entertain for my daughter, than to make her the wife of one who has
a prospect of obtaining the most distinguished eminence in my