He believed that he was dissipating the prejudices of the daughter; that she was ceasing to dislike him personally.  He exerted every faculty of his mind to interest her; he studied her tastes and views with careful analysis, that he might speak to her intelligently and acceptably.  The kindling light in her eyes, and her animated tones, often proved that he succeeded.  Was it the theme wholly that interested her? or was the speaker also gaining some place in her thoughts?  He never could be quite certain as to these points, and yet the impression was growing stronger that if he came some day and said, quietly, “Good-by, Miss Vosburgh, I am going to face every danger which any man dare meet,” she would give him both hands in friendly warmth, and that there would be an expression on her face which had never been turned towards him.

A stormy day, not far from the middle of April, ended in a stormier evening.  Marian had not been able to go out, and had suffered a little from ennui.  Her mother had a headache, Mr. Vosburgh had gone to keep an appointment, and the evening promised to be an interminable one to the young girl.  She unconsciously wished that Merwyn would come, and half-smilingly wondered whether he would brave the storm to see her.

She was not kept long in suspense, for he soon appeared with a book which he wished to return, he said.

“Papa is out,” Marian began, affably, “and you will have to be content with seeing me.  You have a morbidly acute conscience, Mr. Merwyn, to return a book on a night like this.”

“My conscience certainly is very troublesome.”

Almost before she was aware of it the trite saying slipped out, “Honest confession is good for the soul.”

“To some souls it is denied, Miss Vosburgh;” and there was a trace of bitterness in his tones.  Then, with resolute promptness, he resumed their usual impersonal conversation.

While they talked, the desire to penetrate his secret grew strong upon the young girl.  It was almost certain that they would not be interrupted, and this knowledge led her to yield to her mood.  She felt a strange relenting towards him.  A woman to her finger-tips, she could not constantly face this embodied mystery without an increasing desire to solve it.  Cold curiosity, however, was not the chief inspiration of her impulse.  The youth who sat on the opposite side of the glowing grate had grown old by months as if they were years.  His secret was evidently not only a restraint, but a wearing burden.  By leading her companion to reveal so much of his trouble as would give opportunity for her womanly ministry, might she not, in a degree yet unequalled, carry out her scheme of life to make the “most and best of those over whom she had influence”?

“Many brood over an infirmity, a fault, or an obligation till they grow morbid,” she thought.  “I might not be able to show him what was best and right, but papa could if we only knew.”