I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. “Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “what can induce you to cherish so terrible a phantasy? what can induce you to wrong so fearfully the goodness and mercy of our Creator?” Aubrey shrank from my arm, which had still been round him, and covered his face with his hands. I took up the book he had been reading; it was a Latin treatise on predestination, and seemed fraught with the most gloomy and bewildering subtleties. I sat down beside him, and pointed out the various incoherencies and contradictions of the work, and the doctrine it espoused: so long and so earnestly did I speak that at length Aubrey looked up, seemingly cheered and relieved. “I wish,” said he, timidly, “I wish that you loved me, and that you loved _me only_: but you love pleasure, and power, and show, and wit, and revelry; and you know not what it is to feel for me as I feel at times for you,--nay, perhaps you really dislike or despise me.” Aubrey’s voice grew bitter in its tone as he concluded these words, and I was instantly impressed with the belief that some one had insinuated distrust of my affection for him. “Why should you think thus?” I said; “has any cause occurred of late to make you deem my affection for you weaker than it was? Has any one hinted a surmise that I do not repay your brotherly regard?” Aubrey did not answer. “Has Gerald,” I continued, “jealous of our mutual attachment, uttered aught tending to diminish it? Yes, I see that he has.” Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing downward and still silent. “Speak,” said I, “in justice to both of us,--speak! You know, Aubrey, how I _have_ loved and love you: put your arms round me, and say that thing on earth which you wish me to do, and it shall be done!” Aubrey looked up; he met my eyes, and he threw himself upon my neck, and burst into a violent paroxysm of tears. I was greatly affected. “I see my fault,” said I, soothing him; “you are angry, and with justice, that I have neglected you of late; and, perhaps, while I ask your confidence, you suspect that there is some subject on which I should have granted you mine. You are right, and, at a fitter moment, I will. Now let us return homeward: our uncle is never merry when we are absent; and when my mother misses your dark locks and fair cheek, I fancy that she sees little beauty in the ball. And yet, Aubrey,” I added, as he now rose from my embrace and dried his tears, “I will own to you that I love this scene better than any, however gay, within;” and I turned to the sea, starlit as it was, and murmuring with a silver voice, and I became suddenly silent. There was a long pause. I believe we both felt the influence of the scene around us, softening and tranquillizing our hearts; for, at length, Aubrey put his hand in mine, and said, “You were always more generous and kind than I, Morton, though there are times when you seem different from what you are; and I know you have already forgiven me.”