"You confess that you were up here after I went down with Miriam, and that you remained here until tea-time, when I called you down myself." "Yes, Cornelius, I was up here." "Did you not remain alone in the house when every one else was out of the way?" "Yes, Cornelius, I did." "When I came back did I not find you at the door of this room?" "Yes, Cornelius; sitting at the head of the staircase." "Did you not endeavour to prevent me from getting a light?" "I said, Cornelius, I could find what you were looking for, without one." "And you said so twice--twice." "I believe I did, twice, as you say." "I did, scarce knowing why, an unusual thing--I locked the door, I took the key. Do you grant that whatever was done must have been done before then?" "Yes, Cornelius." I spoke and felt like one in a dream. Each answer fell mechanically from my lips; and yet I knew that with every word of assent, the net of evidence I could not so much as attempt to disprove, drew closer around me. "Well," said Cornelius, in the voice of a judge sitting over a criminal, "what have you to say against facts proved by your own confession?" "Nothing, save that I did not do it." I spoke faintly; for my head swam and I felt so giddy that I was obliged to take hold of the back of a chair not to fall. Cornelius saw this; he turned away abruptly--he walked up and down the room--he hesitated; at length he stopped before me, took my unresisting hand in his, made me sit down on the couch, and sat down by me. "Come," he said in a much milder tone, "I see what it is, I have terrified you--you are afraid to confess--that is it--is it not?" "No, Cornelius." "What is it then? dread of punishment?" I shook my head. "Shame?" he said in a low tone. "No? what then?" "It is that I did not do it, Cornelius." He dropped my hand. "Take care!" he said in a low voice, menacing spite of its seeming gentleness; "take care! I have been patient, but I can be provoked. I may forgive an act of passion, of jealousy, of envy even, but I cannot forgive a lie." I loved him, but my blood rose at this. "Am I a liar?" I asked, looking full in his face; "have I ever been one?" "Never," he replied, with some emotion, "and I will not consider this an act of deception, but as the result of fear, obstinacy, or mistaken pride. I will even add that I consider you incapable of deceit, for yesterday you betrayed your feelings concerning this picture and the original with singular imprudence, and both last night and this morning you have carried in your face the consciousness of your guilt. And now listen to me. You have defaced the work I prized, the image of her whom I loved; you have irritated, tormented, injured me, and yet I forgive you. Nay more; neither Kate nor Miriam shall know what has happened. I will spare one whom, spite of so many faults, I cannot help loving, this humiliation, and all on one condition--an easy one--confess."