“Dare not!” repeated Mrs. Hamilton, more and more bewildered; and to conceal the emotion Ellen’s wild words and agonized manner had produced, adopting a greater sternness.

“You dare commit a sin, from which the lowest of my household would shrink in horror, and yet tell me you dare not make the only atonement, give me the only proof of real penitence I demand.  This is a weak and wicked subterfuge, Ellen, and will not pass with me.  There can be no reason for this fearful obduracy, not even the consciousness of greater guilt, for I promise forgiveness, if it be possible, on the sole condition of a full confession.  Once more, will you speak?  Your hardihood will be utterly useless, for you cannot hope to conquer me; and if you permit me to leave you with your conduct still clothed in this impenetrable mystery, you will compel me to adopt measures to subdue that defying spirit, which will expose you and myself to intense suffering, but which must force submission at last.”

“You cannot inflict more than I have endured the last seven weeks,” murmured Ellen, almost inarticulately.  “I have borne that; I can bear the rest.”

“Then you will not answer?  You are resolved not to tell me the day on which you found that money, the use to which it was applied, the reason of your choosing that forbidden path, permitting me to believe you guilty of heavier sins than may be the case in reality.  Listen to me, Ellen; it is more than time this interview should cease; but I will give you one chance more.  It is now half-past seven,”—­she took the watch from her neck, and laid it on the table—­“I will remain here one-half hour longer:  by that time this sinful temper may have passed away, and you will consent to give me the confession I demand.  I cannot believe you so altered in two months as to choose obduracy and misery, when pardon, and in time confidence and love, are offered in their stead.  Get up from that crouching posture; it can be but mock humility, and so only aggravates your sin.”

Ellen rose slowly and painfully, and seating herself at the table some distance from her aunt, leaned her arms upon it, and buried her face within them.  Never before and never after did half an hour appear so interminable to either Mrs. Hamilton or Ellen.  It was well for the firmness of the former, perhaps, that she could not read the heart of that young girl, even if the cause of its anguish had been still concealed.  Again and again did the wild longing, turning her actually faint and sick with its agony, come over her to reveal the whole, to ask but rest and mercy for herself, pardon and security for Edward:  but then, clear as if held before her in letters of fire, she read every word of her brother’s desperate letter, particularly “Breathe it to my uncle or aunt—­for if she knows it he will—­and you will never see me more.”  Her mother, pallid as death, seemed to stand before her, freezing confession on her heart and lips, looking at her threateningly, as she had so often seen her, as if the very thought were guilt.  The rapidly advancing twilight, the large and lonely room, all added to that fearful illusion; and if Ellen did succeed in praying it was with desperate fervor for strength not to betray her brother.  If ever there were a martyr spirit, it was enshrined in that young, frail form.