“I have revealed to you one of my weaknesses.  I am rarely angry, but when I am, my passion, after it is over, frightens me.  Marian, you do forgive me in the very depths of your heart?”

“I do indeed,—­that is, if I have anything to forgive under the circumstances.”

“Poor little girl! how pale you are!  I fear you are ill.”

“I shall soon be better,—­better all my life for your forgiveness and promise.”

“Thank God that we are parting in this manner,” he said.  “I don’t like to think of what might have happened, for I was in the devil’s own mood.  Marian, if you make good the words you have spoken to-night, if you become the woman you can be, you will have a power possessed by few.  It was not your beauty merely that fascinated me, but a certain individuality,—­something all your own, which gives you an influence apparently absolute.  But I shall speak no more in this strain.  I shall try to be as true a friend as I am capable of becoming, although an absent one.  I must prove myself by deeds, not words, however.  May I write to you sometimes?  I will direct my letters under the care of your father, and you may show them to him or your mother, as you wish.”

“Certainly you may, and you will be my first and only gentleman correspondent.  After what has passed between us, it would be prudery to refuse.  Moreover, I wish to hear often of your welfare.  Never for a moment will my warm interest cease, and you can see me whenever you wish.  I have one more thing to ask,—­please take up your old life to-morrow, just where you left off.  Do nothing hastily, or from impulse.  Remember you have promised to make the most and best of yourself, and that requires you to give conscience and reason fair hearing.  Will you also promise this?”

“Anything you asked, I said.”

“Then good-by.  Never doubt my friendship, as I shall not doubt yours.”

Her hand ached from the pressure of his, but the pain was thus drawn from her heart.

CHAPTER VI.

A scheme of life.

Marian waited for her father’s return, having been much too deeply excited for the speedy advent of quiet sleep.  When at last he came she told him everything.  As she described the first part of the interview his brow darkened, but his face softened as she drew toward the close.  When she ceased he said:—­

“Don’t you see I was right in saying that your own tact would guide you better than my reason?  If I, instead of your own nature, had directed you, we should have made an awful mess of it.  Now let me think a moment.  This young fellow has suggested an idea to me,—­a general line of action which I think you can carry out.  There is nothing like a good definite plan,—­not cast-iron, you know, but flexible and modified by circumstances as you go along, yet so clear and defined as to give you something to aim at.  Confound it, that’s