Ellen shook her head. “I am not clever, like you,” she said, smiling, “and I don’t understand parables. If you want my advice you must come down to my level and speak plainly.” Emma turned, and walked slowly from the shadow of the cedar tree into the golden flood of sunlight. Very slowly she passed down the gravel path, that was bordered by blooming roses, pausing now and again as though to admire some particular flower. “She looks more like a white butterfly than a woman, in that dress of hers,” thought Ellen, who was watching her curiously; “and really it would not seem wonderful if she floated away and vanished. It is hot out there, and I think that I had better not follow her. She has something to say, and will come back presently.” She was right. After a somewhat prolonged halt at the end of the path, Emma turned and walked, or rather flitted, straight back to the cedar tree. “I will speak plainly,” she said, “though I could not make up my mind to do so at first. I am ashamed of myself, Ellen—so bitterly ashamed that sometimes I feel as though I should like to run away and never be seen again.” “And why, my dear?” asked Ellen, lifting her eyes. “What dreadful crime have you committed, that you should suffer such remorse?” “No crime, but a folly, which they say is worse,—an unpardonable folly. You know what I mean,—those words that I said when your brother was supposed to be dying. You must have heard them.” “Yes, I heard them; and now that he is not dying, they please me more than any words that I ever listened to from your lips. It is my dearest wish that things should come about between Henry and you as I am sure that they will come about, now that I know your mind towards him.” “If they please you, the memory of them tortures me,” Emma answered, passionately clenching her slim white hands. “Oh! how could I be so shameless as to declare my— my love for a man who has never spoken a single affectionate word to me, who probably looks on me with utter indifference, or, for aught I know, with dislike! And the worst of it is I cannot excuse myself: I cannot say that they were nonsense uttered in a moment of fear and excitement, for it was the truth, the dreadful truth, that broke from me, and which I had no power to withhold. I do love him; I have loved him from the day when I first saw him, nearly two years ago, as I shall always love him; and that is why I am disgraced.” “Really, Emma, I cannot see what there is shocking in a girl becoming fond of a man. You are not the first person to whom such a thing has happened.” “No, there is nothing shocking in the love itself. So long as I kept it secret it was good and holy, a light by which I could guide my life; but now that I have blurted it, it is dishonoured, and I am dishonoured with it. That I was myself half dead with the agony of suspense is no excuse: I say that I am dishonoured.”