"Pardon me, young lady," said the rector with apparent meekness: "heaven knows the purity of my intentions in thus addressing you. It is not always that my spiritual aid is thus rejected—that my motives are thus cruelly suspected." "Forgive me, sir,—I was wrong to excite myself at words which were meant in kindness," said Ellen, completely deceived by this consummate hypocrisy. "Miss Monroe," continued Reginald, "believe me when I assure you that I feel deep compassion—deep interest, wherever I perceive grief—especially when that sorrow is secret. And, if my eyes have not deceived me, methinks I have read in your young heart the existence of some such secret sorrow. My aim is to console you; for the consolation which I can offer is not human—it is divine! I am but the humble _instrument_ of the supernal Goodness; but God imparts solace through even the least worthy of his ministers." "I thank you sincerely for your friendly intentions towards me," said Ellen, now recovering her presence of mind; "but, since my father is restored to health, I have little to vex me." "And yet that self-reproach, Miss Monroe," persisted the rector, determined not to abandon the point to which he had so dexterously conducted the conversation,—"that self-accusation which escaped your lips——" "Is a family secret, Mr. Tracy, which may not be revealed," interrupted Ellen firmly. "I ask you not for your confidence, Miss Monroe: think not that I seek to pry into your affairs with an impertinent curiosity——" "Once more, sir, I thank you for the kindness which prompts you thus to address me; but—pray, let us change the conversation." These words were uttered in so decided a tone, that Reginald dared not persist in his attempt to thrust himself into the young lady's confidence. An awkward silence ensued; and the rector was thinking how he should break it, when the door opened. Almost at the same moment, a female voice was heard outside the room, saying, in tender playfulness, "Come to mamma! come to mamma!" Then, immediately afterwards, Marian entered the apartment, bearing an infant in her arms. Whittingham had neglected to tell her that there was a visitor in the drawing-room. Poor Marian, astounded at the presence of the rector, could neither advance nor retreat for some moments. At length she turned abruptly away. Ellen sank back upon the sofa, overcome with shame and grief. The rector threw upon her a glance full of meaning; but she saw it not—for her own eyes were cast down. This depression, however, lasted only for a moment. Suddenly raising her head, she exclaimed with that boldness and firm frankness which had been taught her by the various circumstances of the last few years of her life, "You now know my secret, sir: but you are a man of honour. I need say no more." "Who has been base enough to leave this grievous wrong unrepaired?" asked Reginald, taking her hand—that soft, warm, delicate hand.