“Very glad am I that, as you tell me, Marian, you have not suffered aught or done aught evil—and I trust that you tell me truly. Beyond this I cannot, I confess it, sympathize with you at all; for in order to sympathize one must understand, and that you know I do not. What sin you should have thought of I cannot so much as conceive—but as you say you have resisted your temptations hitherto—but, oh! what possible temptations to aught evil can have beset you in this dear, peaceful home?—I doubt not that you will be strengthened to resist them farther. You tell me, Marian, that you would not plant a thorn in my calm bosom—it is true that my bosom was calm yester morn, and very happy—but now I should speak falsely were I to say it is so. What _thorn_ you could plant in my heart I know not—nor how you could suppose it—but this I _do know_, Marian, that you have set distrust, and dark suspicion, and deep sorrow in my soul this morning. Distrust of yourself, dear Marian—for what can these half confidences breed except distrust—suspicion of I know not, wish not to know, dare not to fancy what—deep sorrow that already, even from one short separation, a great gulf is spread out between us. I will not press you _now_ to tell me any more, but this I must impress upon you, that you have laid a burthen upon me which, save you only, no earthly being can remove, which nothing can alleviate except its prompt removal. Nay! Marian, nay! answer me nothing now, nothing in this strong heat of passionate emotion; think of it at your calmer leisure, and if you can, in duty to yourself and others, give me your ample confidence, I pray you, Marian, do so. In the mean time, go to your chamber, dearest, and wipe away these traces of your tears, and rearrange your hair. Our guests will be assembled before this, to break their fasts in the south oriel chamber, and I have promised Ernest that we will all ride out and see his falcons fly this beautiful morning.”