"Yes, Aunt Henrietta always knows how to make a house pleasant," she was saying, smiling up at him. "I don't think that rooms ought to be quite so hot, but, except that, they really are as nice as they can be. I am so glad you like it all, Anthony." "You are too good to me, all of you," he said, reading only in her words a care for him which stung him with new remorse. "Ada, have you never repented?--do you think you can be happy with me?" "O, why not?" Perhaps some remembrance of Mr Warren came across her answer, and gave it just a touch of chill. If Anthony had not immediately been aware of the shade, I think he would have failed altogether in the courage which was necessary to pursue the subject; but, although Ada smiled again after her words, he was too sensitive to let it escape him. "Men and women have made mistakes before now, I imagine," he said with a little bitterness, "and it would be no honest means of proving my gratitude to bind you to a mistake until it becomes irrevocable. So, for pity's sake, let us speak openly to each other,--while we can, at any rate." It flashed rapidly upon Ada that she had at last found the solution of the riddle, and that Anthony's unaccountable words sprang, as she at first supposed, from the meeting that afternoon, although it was not anger which moved him, but fear lest she should be repenting of her choice. It was not the case. That little shade which had made itself felt in her answer to his question went no deeper than a little surface regret. She had no desire to marry Mr Warren rather than him, unless some change could alter the relative position of the two men; and it was quite necessary that Anthony should clearly understand this fact, although the idea of exciting a little jealousy was not undelightful to her vanity. She lifted her face, and said reproachfully,-- "I have always made a point of speaking openly. I do not know why you talk about mistakes, unless, indeed, you feel that you have made one yourself." This undesigned home-thrust staggered Anthony for a moment, and then helped him to his purpose. "In one sense I have," he said in a deep voice. "It need make no change in our mutual position, but in your eyes it may do so, and at least I should put it before you. It is a poor return for all your goodness to me to say that I believed I had a whole heart to offer you, and that I was a fool, for a part of myself belongs to another, always has, and, I suppose, always will; but, Ada, would it not have been worse to have hidden it from you? I could not have done so, it must have blistered my tongue when I spoke; I could do nothing but tell you, and put my fate into your hands. Will you still marry me?--will you believe that I will do all I can to make you happy?--will you forgive me?"