“My dear Esther,” said my guardian, “I have long had something in my thoughts that I have wished to say to you.”

“Indeed?”

“I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have.  I should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately considered.  Would you object to my writing it?”

“Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for me to read?”

“Then see, my love,” said he with his cheery smile, “am I at this moment quite as plain and easy—­do I seem as open, as honest and old-fashioned—­as I am at any time?”

I answered in all earnestness, “Quite.”  With the strictest truth, for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.

“Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?” said he with his bright clear eyes on mine.

I answered, most assuredly he did not.

“Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess, Esther?”

“Most thoroughly,” said I with my whole heart.

“My dear girl,” returned my guardian, “give me your hand.”

He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of manner—­the old protecting manner which had made that house my home in a moment—­said, “You have wrought changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach.  First and last you have done me a world of good since that time.”

“Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!”

“But,” said he, “that is not to be remembered now.”

“It never can be forgotten.”

“Yes, Esther,” said he with a gentle seriousness, “it is to be forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while.  You are only to remember now that nothing can change me as you know me.  Can you feel quite assured of that, my dear?”

“I can, and I do,” I said.

“That’s much,” he answered.  “That’s everything.  But I must not take that at a word.  I will not write this something in my thoughts until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as you know me.  If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never write it.  If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send Charley to me this night week—­’for the letter.’  But if you are not quite certain, never send.  Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing as in everything.  If you are not quite certain on that one point, never send!”

“Guardian,” said I, “I am already certain, I can no more be changed in that conviction than you can be changed towards me.  I shall send Charley for the letter.”