“Miss Crediton,” said John Mitford, drawing a long breath, “you don’t know what a very serious question that is; it has been my burden for half my life. I have never spoken of it to any one, and you have taken me a little by surprise. I should like to tell you all about it, but you--would not care to hear.” “Indeed I should,” said Kate, eagerly. “Oh, I do so hope you have not quite made up your mind. It would be such a sacrifice. Fanshawe Regis is very nice--but to be buried here all your life, and never to take part in anything, nor to have any way of rising in the world, or improving your position! If I were a man, I would rather be anything than a clergyman. It is like making a ghost of yourself at the beginning of your life.” “A ghost of myself?” said John. “Yes--of course it just comes to that; other men will go on and on while you remain behind,” cried Kate. “I could not bear it. _That_ Fred Huntley, for example--he is reading for the bar, I believe, and he is clever, and he will be Lord Chancellor, or something, while you are only Rector of Fanshawe Regis. That is what I could not bear.” John shook his head with a feeling that she did not understand him; and yet was attracted, not repelled. “That is not my feeling,” he said. “I don’t think you would think so either if you looked into it more. Huntley has more brains than I have; he will always rise higher if he takes the trouble--but I don’t care for that. The thing is--but, Miss Crediton, it would bore you to listen to such a long story; suppose we go in to my mother--she knows nothing about my vain thoughts, thank heaven!” “Oh no, no,” said Kate, clinging still closer to his arm; “tell me everything--I shall not be bored. That is, if you will--if you don’t mind trusting me.” “Trusting you!” It was curious how much more impressive his voice was, coming out of the darkness. His awkwardness, his diffidence, everything that made him look commonplace in the daylight, had disappeared. Kate felt a little thrill, half of excitement, half of pride. Yes, he would trust her, though nobody else (he said) in all the world. It was not John that thus moved her; it was the sense of being the one selected and chosen--one out of a hundred--one out of the world--which is the sweetest flattery which can be addressed to man or woman. She looked up to him, though he could not see her, raising that face which John already felt was the sweetest in the world. And he bent over her, and her little hand trembled on his arm, and the darkness wrapped them round and round, so that they could not see each other’s faces--the very moment and the very circumstances which make it sweet to confide and to be confided in. It was not yet ten days since he had seen her first, and she had not as yet shown the least trace of a character likely to understand his, and yet he was ready to trust her with the deepest secrets of his heart.