e, for her not to know what I meant by my expressions of the
night before.

I was downcast and wretched, and said but little, and the only bright
streak across the black horizon of my woe was the fact that she did
not appear to be happy, although she affected an air of unconcern. The
moonlit porch was deserted that evening, but wandering about the house
I found Madeline in the library alone. She was reading, but I went in
and sat down near her. I felt that, although I could not do so fully,
I must in a measure explain my conduct of the night before. She
listened quietly to a somewhat labored apology I made for the words I
had used.

"I have not the slightest idea what you meant," she said, "but you
were very rude."

I earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness, and assured her,
with a warmth of speech that must have made some impression upon her,
that rudeness to her would be an action impossible to me. I said a
great deal upon the subject, and implored her to believe that if it
were not for a certain obstacle I could speak to her so plainly that
she would understand everything.

She was silent for a time, and then she said, rather more kindly, I
thought, than she had spoken before:

"Is that obstacle in any way connected with my uncle?"

"Yes," I answered, after a little hesitation, "it is, in a measure,
connected with him."

She made no answer to this, and sat looking at her book, but not
reading. From the expression of her face, I thought she was somewhat
softened toward me. She knew her uncle as well as I did, and she may
have been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that prevented my
speaking (and there were many ways in which he might be that
obstacle), my position would be such a hard one that it would excuse
some wildness of speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too, that
the warmth of my partial explanations had had some effect on her, and
I began to believe that it might be a good thing for me to speak my
mind without delay. No matter how she should receive my proposition,
my relations with her could not be worse than they had been the
previous night and day, and there was something in her face which
encouraged me to hope that she might forget my foolish exclamations
of the evening before if I began to tell her my tale of love.

I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did so the ghost
burst into the room from the doorway behind her. I say burst, although
no door flew open and he