“I am listening, sir—­proceed.”

“I know not how to tell you, sir, in what language to express the growth of an attachment which has taken root in this poor heart, increased and strengthened against every effort which I have made to crush it.”

“Sir!” uttered the incumbent in great amazement.

“Do not be angry, Mr. Fairman, until you have heard all.  I confess that I have been imprudent and rash, that I have foolishly permitted a passion to take possession of my heart, instead of manfully resisting its inroads; but if I have been weak, do not believe that I have been wicked.”

“Speak plainly, Stukely.  What am I to understand by this?”

“That I have dared, sir, to indulge a fond, a hopeless love, inspired by the gentlest and most innocent of her sex—­that I have striven, and striven, to forget and flee from it—­that I have failed—­that I come to confess the fault, to ask your pardon, and depart.”

“Tell me one thing,” asked the incumbent quickly.  “Have you communicated your sentiments to Miss Fairman?”

“I have, sir.”

“Is her illness connected with that declaration?—­You do not answer.  Stukely, I am deceived in you.  I mistrust and doubt you.  You have murdered my poor child.”

“Mr. Fairman, do not, I entreat”—­

“Heaven have mercy upon me for my wild uncrucified temper.  I will use no harsh terms.  I retract that expression, young man.  I am sorry that I used it.  Let me know what more you have to say.”

The tears came to my eyes, and blinded them.  I did not answer.

“Be seated, Stukely,” continued the minister, in a kinder tone; “compose yourself.  I am to blame for using such a term.  Forgive me for it—­I did not mean all that it conveyed.  But you know how fragile and how delicate a plant is that.  You should have thought of her and me before you gratified a passion as wild as it is idle.  Now, tell me every thing.  Conceal and disguise nothing.  I will listen to your calmly, and I will be indulgent.  The past is not to be recalled.  Aid me in the future, if you are generous and just.”

I related all that had passed between Miss Fairman and myself—­all that had taken place in my own turbulent soul—­the battlings of the will and judgment, the determination to overcome temptation, and the sudden and violent yielding to it.  Faithful to his command, I concealed nothing, and, at the close of all, I signified my readiness, my wish, and my intention to depart.

“Forgive me, sir, at parting,” said I, “and you shall hear no more of the disturber of your peace.”