“Too long!  Then you are weary of us, and I will not chide you forbidding us adieu,” said Emily, with a glance of anxiety at Henry.

“Nay, Miss Dumont, do not misinterpret my words.  I am not weary, I cannot be weary, of Bellevue and its fair and good inmates.”

“Then what mean you by saying you have staid too long?”

“Pardon me, I cannot tell why I said it; but I feel that I should do wrong to prolong my stay, however congenial to my feelings to do so,” replied Henry, with the most evident embarrassment.

“How strange you talk, Henry!  What mystery is this?” said Emily, to whom prudential motives were unknown.

“If it be a mystery, pray do not press me to unravel it, for I cannot.”

His resolution was fast giving way before the strength of his love.  He was sorely tempted to throw himself at her feet and pour forth the acknowledgment of his affection, which, he felt, would be kindly received.  It was a difficult position for a man of sensitive feelings to be placed in, and he felt it keenly.  But the duty he owed to his benefactor seemed imperative.

Emily, on her part, was sadly bewildered by the strangeness of Henry’s words; but she had no suspicion of the truth.  If she had, perhaps, with a woman’s ingenuity, she had devised some plan to extricate him from the dilemma.  She was conscious of the strong interest she felt in the man before her; but the fact that she loved him was yet unrecognized.  How should it be?  She was unskilled in the subtleties even of her own heart.  She know not the meaning of love yet.  She was conscious of a grateful sensation in her heart; but she had yet to learn that this sensation was that called love in the great world.  She began to fear, in her inability to account for Henry’s strangeness in any other way, that some secret sorrow weighed heavily upon him.

“I will not press you,” said she, in a tone of affectionate sympathy; “but, if you have any sorrow which oppresses you, reveal it to my father, and take counsel against it.  My father’s house is your home,—­at least, we have always endeavored to make it so.  Father has always regarded you with the affection of a parent, and taught me to consider you as a brother—­”

“A brother!” interrupted Henry, feeling that the relation of brother and sister was too cold for the warmth of his affection; but, instantly banishing the unworthy thought, he continued,

“And so, my pretty sister, you are for the first time entering upon your sisterly relations?”

“The first time!  Have I not always given you evidence of a sister’s esteem?”

“Pardon me.  I only jested,” said Henry, as the playful smile left his countenance.

“Do not jest upon serious things, Henry,” replied Emily.  “But, brother, something troubles you.  You cannot deny it.  You look so gloomy and sad, and must leave us so suddenly.”

“Nay, my sweet sister,—­since sister I am permitted to call you,—­you must forgive me if I am obstinate just this once.”