Captain Snowdon looked ill at ease. He glanced toward the outer door. “How oft have I not told her that a judgment would fall upon her for the heartburnings that she brought about--all through her kindness o' heart?” continued the miller. “Poor daughter! But they all go through the same course, Captain, of that you may be assured, albeit I doubt not that you think that so dread a case as yours has never been known i' the world before. When the marriage day draws nigh, the sweetest and the surest of them all has a misgiving. Don't be too ready to blame them, sir. The wonder is that when she sees so many errors hurried into under the name of marriage, any maid can bring herself to take upon her the bondage.” Captain Snowdon nodded sideways and looked shyly down. “Nature is stronger than experience, miller,” said Wesley. “I am bold enough to think that you could give Mr. Snowdon a pinch of your experience in your garden, after you have told Nelly that I seek a word with her here. I am pretty certain that I shall have completed my task before your experiences as a married man are exhausted.” “Right, sir,” said the miller. “Captain, I show you the door in no inhospitable spirit. I'll join you in the turning of a pinion.” Captain Snowdon seemed pleased to have a chance of retiring, returning to the open air; he hurried out by one door, while the miller went through the other and shouted for Nelly. His wife's remonstrance with him for his unfeeling boisterousness reached Wesley, who was now alone in the room. He was not kept long waiting. Nelly entered, the miller leading her by the hand, and then walking slowly to the outer door.. “My dear, you know why I have come hither,” said Wesley, taking her hand in both of his own. “You asked for my counsel once, and I gave it to you. I could only give it to you at that time in a general way. I had not seen the man to whom you had given your promise; but having seen him, and knowing what manner of man he is--and I am something of a judge of a man's character--I feel that I would be lacking in my duty to you, dear child, if I were to refrain from coming to you to plead for--for your own happiness.” “Have I forfeited all your esteem by my behaviour, sir?” she cried, still holding his hand and looking at him with piteous eyes. “Do you think of me as a light-minded girl, because I confessed to you--all that I did confess?” “I have never ceased to think of you with affection,” he said. “Ah! the affection of a man who is esteemed by all the world, for a poor girl who touched the hem of his life, and then passed away never to be seen by him again.” She spoke in a curious tone of reproach. He looked at her, asking himself what she meant.