“A profession, at least, that is greater than its performance! But it has been to me an education. We got as many as we were able of the books you took pains with, and sometimes could not help doubting whether you had seen the object of the writer. In one you dwelt scornfully on the unscientific allusions, where the design of the book was perfectly served by those allusions, which were merely to illustrate what the author meant. Your social papers, too, were but criticism in another direction. We could not help fearing that your criticism would prove a quicksand, swallowing your faculty for original, individual work. Then there was one horrid book you reviewed!” “Well, I did no harm there! I made it out horrid enough, surely!” “I think you did harm. I, for one, should never have heard of the book, and nobody down here would, I believe, if you had not written about it! You advertised it! Let bad books lie as much unheard of as may be. There is no injustice in leaving them alone.” Walter was silent. “I have no doubt,” he said at length, “that you are out and out right, Molly! Where my work has not been useless, it has been bad!” “I do not believe it has been always useless,” returned Molly. “Do you know, for instance, what a difference there was between your notices of the first and second books of one author--a lady with an odd name--I forget it? I have not seen the books, but I have the reviews. You must have helped her to improve!” Walter gave a groan. “My sins are indeed finding me out!” he said. Then, after a pause--“Molly,” he resumed, “you can’t help yourself--you’ve got to be my confessor! I am going to tell you an ugly fact--an absolute dishonesty!” From beginning to end he told her the story of his relations with Lufa and her books; how he had got the better of his conscience, persuading himself that he thought that which he did not think, and that a book was largely worthy, where at best it was worthy but in a low degree; how he had suffered and been punished; how he had loved her, and how his love came to a miserable and contemptible end. That it had indeed come to an end, Molly drew from the quiet way in which he spoke of it; and his account of the letter he had written to Lufa, confirmed her conclusion. How delighted she was to be so thoroughly trusted by him! “I’m so glad, Walter!” she said. “What are you glad of, Molly?” “That you know one sort of girl, and are not so likely to take the next upon trust.” “We must take some things on trust, Molly, else we should never have anything!” “That is true, Walter; but we needn’t without a question empty our pockets to the first beggar that comes! When you were at home last, I wondered whether the girl could be worthy of your love.” “What girl?” asked Walter, surprised. “Why, that girl, of course!” “But I never said anything!” “Twenty times a day!” “What then made you doubt her worth?” “That you cared less for your father.”