So she stood, breathing quietly, steadily eyeing him.

“No, no;” went on Mr. Pole.  “Come, come.  We’ll sit down, and see, and talk—­see what can be done.  You know I always meant kindly by you.”

“Oh, yes!” Emilia musically murmured, and it cost her nothing to smile again.

“Now, tell me how this began.”  Mr. Pole settled himself comfortably to listen, all irritation having apparently left him, under the influence of the dominant nature.  “You need not be ashamed to talk it over to me.”

“I am not ashamed,” Emilia led off, and told her tale simply, with here and there one of her peculiar illustrations.  She had not thought of love till it came to life suddenly, she said; and then all the world looked different.  The relation of Wilfrid’s bravery in fighting for her, varied for a single instant the low monotony of her voice.  At the close of the confession, Mr. Pole wore an aspect of distress.  This creature’s utter unlikeness to the girls he was accustomed to, corroborated his personal view of the case, that Wilfrid certainly could not have been serious, and that she was deluded.  But he pitied her, for he had sufficient imagination to prevent him from despising what he did not altogether comprehend.  So, to fortify the damsel, he gave her a lecture:  first, on young men—­their selfish inconsiderateness, their weakness, the wanton lives they led, their trick of lying for any sugar-plum, and how they laughed at their dupes.  Secondly, as to the conduct consequently to be prescribed to girls, who were weaker, frailer, by disposition more confiding, and who must believe nothing but what they heard their elders say.

Emilia gave patient heed to the lecture.

“But I am safe,” she remarked, when he had finished; “for my lover is not as those young men are.”

To speak at all, and arrange his ideas, was a vexation to the poor merchant.  He was here like an irritable traveller, who knocks at a gate, which makes as if it opens, without letting him in.  Emilia’s naive confidence he read as stupidity.  It brought on a fresh access of the nervous fever lurking in him, and he cried, jumping from his seat:  “Well, you can’t have him, and there’s an end.  You must give up—­confound! why! do you expect to have everything you want at starting?  There, my child—­but, upon my honour! a man loses his temper at having to talk for an hour or so, and no result.  You must go to bed; and—­do you say your prayers?  Well! that’s one way of getting out of it—­pray that you may forget all about what’s not good for you.  Why, you’re almost like a young man, when you set your mind on a thing.  Bad! won’t do!  Say your prayers regularly.  And, please, pour me out a mouthful of brandy.  My hand trembles—­I don’t know what’s the matter with it;—­just like those rushes on the Thames I used to see when out fishing.  No wind, and yet there they shake away.  I wish it was daylight on the old river now!  It’s night, and no mistake.  I feel as if I had a fellow twirling a stick over my head.  The rascal’s been at it for the last month.  There, stop where you are, my dear.  Don’t begin to dance!”