“You are, I believe, Bessy,” replied I.

“My father, therefore, is deceiving himself with the hopes of what never can take place, but I know him even better than you do, Tom; it is the object of his daily thoughts—­his only wish before he sinks into his grave.  I cannot bear to undeceive him; no more can you, if I have truly judged your feelings.”

“You have judged right, Bessy.”

“The very circumstance of our knowing his wishes, the hints which he throws out, his joking on the subject, have been a source of annoyance to both of us; and not only a source of annoyance, Tom, it has estranged us—­we no longer feel that affection which we should feel for each other, that kindness as between brother and sister which might exist; on the contrary, not being exactly aware of each other’s feelings, we avoid each other, and fearful that the least kindness might be misconstrued, we do not really treat each as we otherwise would; in fact, it has destroyed our mutual confidence.  Is it not so?”

“It is, I acknowledge, but too true, Bessy, and I thank you for having entered into this explanation—­”

“Which, as I said before,” continued Bessy, “I should not have done except for the sake of my father; but now that I have done so” (and here Bessy’s voice became tremulous), “let us consult at once how we shall act so as to secure his happiness, and that in future we may return to the former confidence and regard which should exist between us as brother and sister.”

“Point out how this is to be done, Bessy, and I will cheerfully enter into your wishes.”

“We must laugh when he laughs, Tom, even if not inclined; we must gain time—­that is very easy.  I may refuse as long as he lives—­you may put it off; and then, Tom, circumstances may help us—­who knows what even a day may bring forth?”

“Very true,” replied I, “there’s only one thing—­”

“What is that?”

“Suppose I was to marry?”

“Then,” replied Bessy, in a voice half choked, as she turned away, “my father would be very unhappy.”

I looked round to reply, but she had gone into the cottage.  This conversation gave me great satisfaction.  I felt convinced that if I had at one time formed the idea that Bessy was attached to me, I had been mistaken, and I was as indifferent to her as she was to me.  I was just as anxious as she was not to vex Bramble, and equally glad that confidence was restored between us.  Alas!  I must have been very blind not to have perceived what was the true state of her feelings, but I did not, and after some reflection I determined that I would make her a confidante of my passion for Janet Wilson; and then I walked to the post-office to see if there were any letters from Virginia.  There was a letter for me—­a double one.  As soon as I had paid the money, I opened it; it was very closely written, and evidently Virginia had much to communicate to me.  I forgot for the moment Bessy and Bramble, thought only of Janet, and put the letter to my lips as I walked away, that I might go home and read it.  I hurried past Bessy, who was in the parlor, and went up the stairs into my bedroom, where I took my letter out of my pocket and commenced it.