“Your own confessions, Margaret, nothing more; for had an angel from heaven told the things of you that you have stated of yourself, I should not have believed him!” “Oh, my mother! Oh, my God!” she cried, in a tone of such deep misery, that, through all his own trouble, Ralph deeply pitied and gently answered her. “Be at ease. I do not reproach you, my child.” “But you believe. Oh, you believe----” “Your own statement concerning yourself, dear Margaret; no more nor less.” “Believe no more. Not a hair’s breadth more. Scarcely so much. And draw from that no inferences. On your soul, draw no inferences against me; for they would be most unjust. For I am yours; only yours; wholly yours. I have never, never had any purpose, wish, or thought at variance with your claims upon me.” “You must pardon me, Margaret, if I cannot reconcile your present statement with the admissions lately made to your father. Allow me to bring them to your memory.” “Oh, Heaven, have mercy on me!” she cried, covering her face. “Remember, I do not reproach you with them; I only recall them to your mind. You have been in secret correspondence with this young man for three years past; you have given him private meetings; you have passed hours alone in the woods with him; you have received him in your chamber; you have been abroad for days in his company; you have confessed the truth of all this; and yet you declare that he is not, and cannot be a lover of yours. Margaret, Margaret, how can you expect me, for a moment, to credit the amazing inconsistency of your statements?” While he spoke, she stood before him in an agony of confusion and distress, her form cowering; her face sunk upon her breast; her eyes shunning his gaze; her face, neck, and bosom crimsoned with fiery blushes; her hands writhed together; her whole aspect one of conscious guilt, convicted crime, and overwhelming shame. The anguish stamped upon the brow of her lover was terrible to behold. Yet he governed his emotions, and compelled his voice to be steady in saying: “Dear Margaret, if in any way you can reconcile these inconsistencies--speak!” Speak. Ay, she might have done so. One word from her lips would have sufficed to lift the cloud of shame from her brow, and to crown her with an aureola of glory; would have averted the storm of calamity gathering darkly over her head, and restored her, a cherished daughter, to the protecting arms of her father; an honored maiden to the esteem of friends and companions; a beloved bride to the sheltering bosom of her bridegroom. A word would have done this; yet that word, which could have lifted the shadow from her own heart and life, must have bid it settle, dark and heavy, upon the grave of the dumb, defenseless dead beneath her feet. And the word remained unspoken.