ndeavour to
relieve myself.'

Miss Grandison did not reply, but she trembled. 'It concerns you,
Katherine.'

Still she was silent, and expressed no astonishment at this strange
address.

'If I were anything now but an object of pity, a miserable and
broken-hearted man,' continued Ferdinand, 'I might shrink from this
communication; I might delegate to another this office, humiliating as
it then might be to me, painful as it must, under any circumstances,
be to you. But,' and here his voice faltered, 'but I am far beyond the
power of any mortification now. The world and the world's ways touch me
no more. There is a duty to fulfil; I will fulfil it. I have offended
against you, my sweet and gentle cousin; grievously, bitterly,
infamously offended.'

'No, no, no!' murmured Miss Grandison.

'Katherine, I am unworthy of you; I have deceived you. It is neither
for your honour nor your happiness that these ties which our friends
anticipate should occur between us. But, Katherine, you are avenged.'

'Oh! I want no vengeance!' muttered Miss Grandison, her face pale as
marble, her eyes convulsively closed. 'Cease, cease, Ferdinand; this
conversation is madness; you will be ill again.'

'No, Katherine, I am calm. Fear not for me. There is much to tell;
it must be told, if only that you should not believe that I was a
systematic villain, or that my feelings were engaged to another when I
breathed to you those vows.'

'Oh! anything but that; speak of anything but that!'

Ferdinand took her hand.

'Katherine, listen to me. I honour you, my gentle cousin, I admire, I
esteem you; I could die content if I could but see you happy. With your
charms and virtues I thought that we might be happy. My intentions were
as sincere as my belief in our future felicity. Oh! no, dear Katherine,
I could not trifle with so pure and gentle a bosom.'

'Have I accused you, Ferdinand?'

'But you will when you know all.'

'I do know all,' said Miss Grandison, in a hollow voice.

Her hand fell from the weak and trembling grasp of her cousin.

'You do know all,' he at length exclaimed. 'And can you, knowing all,
live under the same roof with me? Can you see me? Can you listen to me?
Is not my voice torture to you? Do you not hate and despise me?'

'It is not my nature to hate anything; least of all could I hate you.'

'And could you, knowing all, still minister to my wants and watch my sad
necessities? This gentle arm of yours; could you,