“Miss Minot, you are braver than I imagined.  Let me disarm your fear; I have no intention of intruding myself where I am not desired.  How you came in possession of these interesting facts is a mystery (insinuating, I felt, that I had been eavesdropping).  Nevertheless I admit them all, and I admire you greatly.  You are, however, as impulsive as a changeful sea, and you made little preparation for this conversation.  Allow me to suggest that in affairs of the heart you should be a little less stormy.  I am your friend, and I say this in kindness.”

“I thank you, sir; you have lived longer than I have, and I know by the expression in your eye to-day that you can, if you choose, govern all the love in your nature at the will of your intellect; I cannot, and I never want to; I like to be impulsive, I like to be true, I hate policy.”  As I spoke, my eyes were, I know, like dark fires.

He looked like a man of marble as he said, “Your fears are ungrounded; you might have spared yourself this trouble,” and turning, left me.

“There, ‘Emily did it,’ and didn’t do it all,” I said to myself.  “Now he will be more determined than ever, Clara will die, Louis will hate me, and I shall be bereft doubly.  Oh! dear, dear!  Emily mistakes—­my name should be.”  Then the tears came and I sat with my face buried in my hands, and cried like a child.  A hand touched me, an arm crept round me, “Hal,” I said, starting.

“No,” said Wilmur Benton in his sweeter tone, “It is I.”

“Oh!” I screamed almost, making an attempt to rise, but his arm held me firmly as he said: 

“Forgive me, Miss Minot, if I have caused you pain—­I spoke harshly, I fear.”

“You are forgiven,” I said, “let me go.”

“You are my friend still?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said quickly, “do let me go,” and I fled to my own room, and endeavored to wash away the stains of tears, to make my appearance down stairs, for it was already late and mother would be looking for me.

I felt unlike myself and feared all would discern my uneasiness.  Mr. Benton had, I knew, a mistaken idea, and his polite attentions were torture to me; he evidently thought my tears needed his commiseration, whereas, I was only sorry I had not delivered a forcible speech in Clara’s behalf, and caused him (as I had intended) to realize the necessity of a change in his conduct toward her.  I expected him to be vexed with me and was willing he should be, if it would relieve Clara.  Now, however, he seemed to feel I was entitled to his sympathy.  There was one thought, however, that gave relief; while he was occupying himself with me, Clara would not be annoyed.  Mother said she had a basket to send to Aunt Peg, and I volunteered to take it.  Mr. Benton smilingly said: 

“Let me accompany you, Miss Minot, it will be quite dark ere you return.”

“I am not afraid, thank you, and it will be moonlight,” then thinking of Clara I added, “still I might encounter an assassin on the road.”