That very evening, as I was sitting at my window, watching the moon rise over the water, I saw Mary Ellen pass along the road, and sit down upon a little wooden step which was attached to a fence for convenience in getting over.  She was watching the moon rise, too.

The scene I had so recently witnessed from the buttonwood-tree had made me desperate.  I felt that now, if ever, I must speak.  Seizing my hat, I walked rapidly to the spot, hoping it would be given me in that hour what to say.

After we had talked awhile about the moon, how it looked, rising over the waters, as we saw it, and rising over the mountains, as she had seen it, I turned my face rather aside, and said, quite suddenly,—­

“Mary Ellen, I want to speak to you about something important.  I hope you will take it kindly.”

She made no answer; seemed startled.  I hardly know how I stumbled along, but I finally found myself speaking of my friendship for David, and of my aversion to Warren Luce.  She appeared not at all displeased, but said very little.  This was not as I expected.  I thought she might answer carelessly,—­lightly.

There came a pause.  I couldn’t seem to get on.  She safe with averted face, her arm on the fence, her head in her hand.  In the strong light of the moon, every feature was revealed.  How beautiful she was in the moonlight!  But what was her face saying?  A good deal, certainly; but what?

I stood leaning against the fence.

“Mary Ellen,” said I, with a sudden jerk, as it were, “it can’t be that Warren Luce—­that he is the one whom—­that—­that you”—­And here I stopped.

“I think Warren Luce has great power over me,” said she, calmly, as if coolly scanning her own feelings; “but you said right.  He is not the one whom—­that”—­

And here she smiled, as if at the thought of my broken-off sentences, but without looking up.

“My dear girl,” said I, earnestly, and taking a forward step,—­“forgive me, but—­I think—­I hope—­you love David,—­don’t you?”

’Twas a bold question, and I knew it; but I was thinking how pleasant ’twould be to carry good tidings to my friend.

“I love his goodness,” said she, just as calmly as before.  “And I love him for loving me.  I wish he was happy.  I hope no harm will come to him.  I would do everything for him,—­but”—­and here her voice fell—­“I don’t love him as Jane loved.”

“Jane who?” I asked, in surprise.

“Jane Eyre.”

Here was a dilemma for me.  What should I say next?  What business had I, meddling with a young girl’s heart?  I had been almost sure of finding soundings, yet here I was in deep water!  And, with all my pains, what had I accomplished?

She arose, and moved towards the house.  I walked along by her side, without speaking.

“I’m going away to-morrow,” said she, as we reached the gate, “to make a visit at the old place; then everybody will be happier.”