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 hand of you, I have desired to see whether it were possible to inspire her with love for a man so much older than herself.  For, much as I love her, I would not seek to marry her without a return of love—­not mere respect, esteem, or gratitude.  That is the problem I have been waiting to solve.”

A confession to this effect was on the tip of his tongue.  To have made it, would have been like tearing open his breast and showing his heart.  But he would have made it, whatever the pain, if, on looking nervously up from the letter, which he had now finished, he had not met the cold, searching eyes of the inventor.  He instantly shut his lips upon the outcoming confession, and said, with as much indifference as he could awkwardly assume: