‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Hillyard?’ said Mary. ‘I hope I have not been rude. You are a stranger to us all. It is only through Ben we have known you; and it was natural when I saw you that I should think of my cousin. If I have hurt your feelings I am sure I beg your pardon.’ In all this she was talking against time, hoping that Frank or somebody would come in. ‘No,’ he said; ‘I know I had no right to think of anything else. Of course I am a stranger. Ben’s dog,--that is about it! I am not sneering, Miss Westbury. I should not have minded your calling me so when I came.’ And there he stood, turning his eyes away from her, a big strong man of the woods as he looked, abashed and disconcerted, like a chidden child. He gazed out blankly, pulling his beard, with a flush of such quick mortification and downfall as a boy might feel when he sees his hasty projects fall to nought, and yet a deeper pang underneath than any boy could bear. Altogether the man looked so humbled and sore and sad, silenced in the very moment of effusion, that Mary’s heart was moved. She was sorry for him, and remorseful for her own indifference. It seemed almost needful to let him say out his say by way of consolation. ‘We all called you Ben’s friend,’ she said; ‘his best friend, whom we have heard of for years. Nobody else could have come among us at such a time. You must not think I mean anything disrespectful or unkind.’ Then there came a great burst of words from him. ‘That was what I thought,’ he said; ‘that you had been used to hearing of me; that I might have been to you as an old friend. I too have heard of you for years. And look here, Miss Westbury; you may scorn me, but I must say it, I have been in love with you for years. I used to see your letters, and think there was a woman, if one could ever hope to get within speech of her! And then I came here. I ought never to have come. My heart was full of you before, and you may think what it was when I saw you. Don’t stop me, please; it is better now that it should all come out. You were kind to me, as you would have been to any stranger; but you did not know what was in my mind, and I did, and went on fire like a fool. There now, I see how it is. I won’t grieve you by asking anything. Only give me your hand and say you forgive a rough fellow for taking it upon him to love you, before he ever saw you; and behaving himself like an ass when he did.’ ‘Mr. Hillyard, I am so sorry,’ said Mary, with tears in her eyes. ‘I did not mean,--I never thought,--It is me whom you must forgive,--if you can.’ ‘You!’ said the strange man. ‘God bless you! that’s what I say. You and forgiving have nothing to do with each other.’ And then he took her hand between both his, and gazed down upon her with a fond, lingering, sorrowful look, as if he were getting her face by heart. ‘I don’t know why I came,’ he said, muttering to himself; ‘I knew it would be exactly so,--just so. And yet I wanted you to know----’