Louis slept, thanks to his step-mother's anodyne, and the dreaded morrow came, when the broad light of day must reveal all the inroads the indulgence of guilty passions had caused. Another revelation must be made. He knew his father would demand a full history of his conduct, and it was a relief to his burdened conscience, that had so long groaned under the weight of secret transgressions, to cast itself prostrate at the feet of parental authority in the dust and ashes of humiliation. But while he acknowledged and deplored his own vices, he could not criminate Clinton. He implored his father to inflict upon him any penalty, however severe, he knew, he felt it to be just, but not to require of him to treat his friend with ingratitude and insult. His stay would not be long. He must return very soon to Virginia. He had been prevented from doing so by a fatal and contagious disease that had been raging in the neighborhood of his home, and when that subsided, other accidental causes had constantly interfered with his design. Must the high-spirited Virginian go back to his native regions with the story so oft repeated of New England coldness and inhospitality verified in his own experience? "Say no more," said his father. "I will reflect on all you have said, and you shall know the result. Now, come with me to the counting-house, and let me see if you can put your mathematics to any practical use. Employment is the greatest safeguard against temptation." There was one revelation which Louis did not make, and that was the amount of his debts. He dared not do it, though again and again he had opened his lips to tell it. "To-morrow I will do it," thought he--but before the morrow came he recollected the words of Miss Thusa, uttered the last time he had visited her cabin--"If you should get into trouble and not want to vex those that are kin, you can come to me, and if you don't despise my counsel and assistance perhaps it may do you good." This had made but little impression on him at the time, but it came back to him now "_powerfully_" as Miss Thusa would say; and he thought it possible there was more meant than reached the ear. He remembered how meaningly, how even commandingly her gray eye had fixed itself on him as she spoke, and he believed in the great love which the ancient spinster bore him. At any rate he knew she would be gratified by such a proof of confidence on his part, and that with Spartan integrity she would guard the trust. It would be a relief to confide in her. He waited till twilight and then appeared an unexpected but welcome visitor at the Hermitage, as Helen called the old gray cottage. The light in the chimney was dim, and she was hastening to kindle a more cheering blaze. "No, Miss Thusa," said he, "I love this soft gloom. There's no need of a blaze to talk by, you know."