Truth to say, she was in a state of excited womanhood vastly becoming to her general appearance, and entered the library with flushed cheeks and head erect, like one prepared to stand for herself and for her sex. Harry, however, wore a mortified, semi-penitential air, that, on the first glance, rather mollified her. Still, however, she was not sufficiently clement to give him the least assistance in opening the conversation, by the suggestions of any of those nice little oily nothings with which ladies, when in a gracious mood, can smooth the path for a difficult confession. She sat very quietly, with her hands before her, while Harry walked tumultuously up and down the room. “Miss Ferguson,” he said at last, abruptly, “I know you are thinking ill of me.” Miss Ferguson did not reply. “I had hoped,” he said, “that there had been a little something more than mere acquaintance between us. I had hoped you looked upon me as a friend.” “I did, Mr. Endicott,” said Rose. “And you do not now?” “I cannot say that,” she said, after a pause; “but, Mr. Endicott, if we are friends, you must give me the liberty to speak plainly.” “That’s exactly what I want you to do!” he said impetuously; “that is just what I wish.” “Allow me to ask, then, if you are an early friend, and family connection of Mrs. John Seymour?” “I was an early friend, and am somewhat of a family connection.” “That is, I understand there has been a ground in your past history for you to be on a footing of a certain family intimacy with Mrs. Seymour; in that case, Mr. Endicott, I think you ought to have considered yourself the guardian of her honor and reputation, and not allowed her to be compromised on your account.” The blood flushed into Harry’s face; and he stood abashed and silent. Rose went on,— “I was shocked, I was astonished, last night, because I could not help overhearing the most disagreeable, the most painful remarks on you and her,—remarks most unjust, I am quite sure, but for which I fear you have given too much reason!”