Harry, however, wore a mortified, semi-penitential air, that, on the first glance, rather mollified her.  Still, however, she was not sufficiently clement to give him the least assistance in opening the conversation, by the suggestions of any of those nice little oily nothings with which ladies, when in a gracious mood, can smooth the path for a difficult confession.

She sat very quietly, with her hands before her, while Harry walked tumultuously up and down the room.

“Miss Ferguson,” he said at last, abruptly, “I know you are thinking ill of me.”

Miss Ferguson did not reply.

“I had hoped,” he said, “that there had been a little something more than mere acquaintance between us.  I had hoped you looked upon me as a friend.”

“I did, Mr. Endicott,” said Rose.

“And you do not now?”

“I cannot say that,” she said, after a pause; “but, Mr. Endicott, if we are friends, you must give me the liberty to speak plainly.”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do!” he said impetuously; “that is just what I wish.”

“Allow me to ask, then, if you are an early friend and family connection of Mrs. John Seymour?”

“I was an early friend, and am somewhat of a family connection.”

“That is, I understand there has been a ground in your past history for you to be on a footing of a certain family intimacy with Mrs. Seymour; in that case, Mr. Endicott, I think you ought to have considered yourself the guardian of her honor and reputation, and not allowed her to be compromised on your account.”

The blood flushed into Harry’s face; and he stood abashed and silent.  Rose went on,—­

“I was shocked, I was astonished, last night, because I could not help overhearing the most disagreeable, the most painful remarks on you and her,—­remarks most unjust, I am quite sure, but for which I fear you have given too much reason!”

“Miss Ferguson,” said Harry, stopping as he walked up and down, “I confess I have been wrong and done wrong; but, if you knew all, you might see how I have been led into it.  That woman has been the evil fate of my life.  Years ago, when we were both young, I loved her as honestly as man could love a woman; and she professed to love me in return.  But I was poor; and she would not marry me.  She sent me off, yet she would not let me forget her.  She would always write to me just enough to keep up hope and interest; and she knew for years that all my object in striving for fortune was to win her.  At last, when a lucky stroke made me suddenly rich, and I came home to seek her, I found her married,—­married, as she owns, without love,—­married for wealth and ambition.  I don’t justify myself,—­I don’t pretend to; but when she met me with her old smiles and her old charms, and told me she loved me still, it roused the very devil in me.  I wanted revenge.  I wanted to humble her, and make her suffer all she had made me; and I didn’t care what came of it.”