“And yet, Marian,” he said, “I have done you a wrong—a wrong which has eaten into my very soul, and worn my life away. I did not intend to speak of it to-night, but something prompts me to do so, and you must listen. On that night when your father died, and when all in the ship, save ourselves and the watch, were asleep, I laid my hand on his forehead, and swore to be faithful to my trust. Do you hear, Marian—faithful to my trust. You don’t know what that meant, but _I_ know, and I’ve broken my oath to the dying—and from that grave in the ocean he comes to me sometimes, and with the same look upon his face which it wore that Summer afternoon when we laid him in the sea, he asks why justice has not been done to you. Wait, Marian, until I have finished,” he continued, as he saw her about to speak; “I know I have not long to live, and I would make amends; but, Marian, I would rather—oh, so much rather, you should not know the truth until I’m dead. You will forgive me then more readily, won’t you, Marian? Promise me you will forgive the poor old man who has loved you so much—loved you, if possible, better than he loved his only son.” He paused for her reply, and half bewildered, Marian answered, “I don’t know what you mean—but if, as you say, a wrong has been done, no matter how great that wrong may be, it is freely forgiven for the sake of what you’ve been to me.” The sick man wound his arm lovingly around her, and bringing her nearer to him, he said, “Bless you, Marian—bless you for that. It makes my deathbed easier. I will leave it in writing—my confession. I cannot tell it now, for I could not bear to see upon your face that you despised me. You wrote to Frederic, and told him to come quickly?” “Yes,” returned Marian, “I said you were very sick and wished to see him at once.” For a moment there was silence in the room; then, removing his arm from the neck of the young girl, the old man raised himself upon his elbow and looking her steadily in the face, said, “Marian, could you love my son Frederic?” The question was a strange one, but Marian Lindsey was accustomed to strange modes of speech in her guardian, and with a slightly heightened color she answered quietly, “I do love him as a brother—” “Yes, but I would have you love him as something nearer,” returned her guardian. “Ever since I took you for my child it has been the cherished object of my life that you should be his wife.” There was a nervous start and an increase of color in Marian’s face, for the idea, though not altogether disagreeable, was a new one to her, but she made no reply, and her guardian continued, “I am selfish in this wish, though not wholly so. I know you could be happy with him, and in no other way can my good name be saved from disgrace. Promise me, Marian, that you will be his wife very soon after I am dead, and before all Kentucky is talking of my sin. You are not too young. You will be sixteen in a few months, and many marry as early as that.”