“Now, Edith, you who know me so well, tell me, can you think it possible that I have done, or said anything which has been calculated to make her suppose that I loved her—­that I sought her.  In short, do you think me capable of playing the scoundrel.  I feel that I have been blind—­something of a fool, Edith—­but, on my soul, I can not recall a moment in which I have said or shown anything to this poor girl which was unbecoming in the gentleman.”

The maiden looked at him curiously.  At first there was something like an arch smile playing upon her lips and in her light lively eyes.  But when she noted how real was his anxiety—­how deeply and keenly he felt his own doubt—­she felt that the little jest which occurred to her fancy, would be unseemly and unreasonable.  So, she answered promptly, but quietly—­

“Pshaw, Ralph, how can you afflict yourself with, any such notions?  I have no doubt of the perfect propriety of your conduct; and I will venture to say that Miss Munro entertains no reproaches.”

“Yet, feeling so grateful to her, Edith—­and when I first came here, lonely, wounded and suffering every way—­feeling so much the want of sympathy—­I may have shown to her—­almost the only being with whom I could sympathize—­I may have shown to her a greater degree of interest, than—­”

“My dear Ralph, you are certainly one of the most modest young men of the present generation; that is, if you do not deceive yourself now, in your conjectures touching the state of Miss Munro’s affections.  After all, it may be a sudden illness from exhaustion, excitement, terror—­which you have undertaken to account for by supposing her desperately in love.”

“Heaven grant it be so,” answered Ralph.

“Well, whether so or not, do not distress yourself.  I will answer for it, you are not to blame.  And here, let me whisper a little secret in your ears.  However forbidden by all the wise, solemn, staid regulations of good society, there are young women—­very few I grant you—­who will, without the slightest call for it, or provocation, suffer their little hearts to go out of their own keeping—­who will—­I am ashamed to confess it—­positively suffer themselves to love even where the case is hopeless—­where no encouragement is given to them—­where they can have no rights at all, and where they can only sigh, and mourn, and envy the better fortunes of other people.  I have no doubt that Miss Munro is one of these very unsophisticated persons; and that you have been all the while, and only the innocent cause of all her troubles.  I acquit you of lese majeste, Ralph, so put off your doleful faces.”

“Don’t speak so carelessly of the matter, Edith.  We owe this dear girl a heavy debt—­I do, at least.”

“And we shall try and pay it, Ralph.  But you must leave this matter to me.  I will go and see Lucy.”

“But she refuses to see you.”

“I will not be refused.  I will see her, and she shall see me, and I trust we shall succeed in taking her home with us.  It may be, Ralph, that she will feel shy in thinking of you as a brother, but I will do my best to make her adopt me as a sister.”