He was shaking all over as he said this.  I did not delay a moment in answering him,—­

’I do not believe that Edward Holdsworth ever played tricks on Phillis, ever made love to her; he never, to my knowledge, made her believe that he loved her.’

I stopped; I wanted to nerve up my courage for a confession, yet I wished to save the secret of Phillis’s love for Holdsworth as much as I could; that secret which she had so striven to keep sacred and safe; and I had need of some reflection before I went on with what I had to say.

He began again before I had quite arranged my manner of speech.  It was almost as if to himself,—­’She is my only child; my little daughter!  She is hardly out of childhood; I have thought to gather her under my wings for years to come her mother and I would lay down our lives to keep her from harm and grief.’  Then, raising his voice, and looking at me, he said, ’Something has gone wrong with the child; and it seemed to me to date from the time she heard of that marriage.  It is hard to think that you may know more of her secret cares and sorrows than I do,—­but perhaps you do, Paul, perhaps you do,—­only, if it be not a sin, tell me what I can do to make her happy again; tell me.’

‘It will not do much good, I am afraid,’ said I, ’but I will own how wrong I did; I don’t mean wrong in the way of sin, but in the way of judgment.  Holdsworth told me just before he went that he loved Phillis, and hoped to make her his wife, and I told her.’

There! it was out; all my part in it, at least; and I set my lips tight together, and waited for the words to come.  I did not see his face; I looked straight at the wall Opposite; but I heard him once begin to speak, and then turn over the leaves in the book before him.  How awfully still that room was I The air outside, how still it was!  The open windows let in no rustle of leaves, no twitter or movement of birds—­no sound whatever.  The clock on the stairs—­ the minister’s hard breathing—­was it to go on for ever?  Impatient beyond bearing at the deep quiet, I spoke again,—­

‘I did it for the best, as I thought.’

The minister shut the book to hastily, and stood up.  Then I saw how angry he was.

’For the best, do you say?  It was best, was it, to go and tell a young girl what you never told a word of to her parents, who trusted you like a son of their own?’

He began walking about, up and down the room close under the open windows, churning up his bitter thoughts of me.

‘To put such thoughts into the child’s head,’ continued he; ’to spoil her peaceful maidenhood with talk about another man’s love; and such love, too,’ he spoke scornfully now—­a love that is ready for any young woman.  Oh, the misery in my poor little daughter’s face to-day at dinner—­the misery, Paul!  I thought you were one to be trusted—­your father’s son too, to go and put such thoughts into the child’s mind; you two talking together about that man wishing to marry her.’