could see through its brick walls. Then he would cross the street, and
pace up and down on that side, taking views of the house at every
variety of angle. This was precisely what the boy Bog did daily about an
hour and a half later. Now, although Marcus felt, in his heart, that
these pedestrian exercises--absurd to everybody but a lover--were
perfectly harmless in their purpose and effect, he was aware that, to a
man like Mr. Minford, looking at them suspiciously, they would appear to
be connected with some stealthy and base design.

As to the imputations upon his former history, Marcus could freely
challenge the closest scrutiny; which is more than most men can do into
that long record of juvenile frailties and escapades which ushers in the
sober book of manhood. But here again the devil of sensitiveness
asserted his supremacy. Marcus had had a twin brother (who died years
before), a duplicate of himself in all respects but two. Marcus was
quiet, studious, honest, and frank; while Aurelius was quiet, studious,
less honest, and infinitely crafty. Marcus had, on several occasions in
his boyhood, been accused of petty offences which Aurelius had
committed, but which that cunning youth had unblushingly denied. These,
so far as Marcus supposed, were nothing more serious than robbing
orchards or melon patches. Still it was possible that some graver
wrong--more worthy of the title "infamous"--committed by his wild,
shrewd brother, might be brought to light by some deep explorer among
the traditions of his native village, and charged upon himself. This
possibility, and the difficulty of refuting a serious accusation under
such circumstances, brought a second flush of guilt to the face of
Marcus Wilkeson as he read the letter.

These harassing thoughts, which fill so much space, written out, are but
a small part of those which were suggested with electric suddenness.

Marcus's first impulse was to say: "I love your daughter, Mr. Minford,
with my whole heart and soul. It is my first and my only love, singular
though this confession may sound from the lips of a man of thirty-six
years. The proudest and happiest day of my life would be that on which I
could marry her, with her dear love and your fatherly consent. This
love, which is as pure as the angelic creature upon whom it is lavished,
fully explains my visits here, and whatever else is mysterious in my
conduct. But, before declaring myself to your daughter, or asking her
h