"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow, had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance. My form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I had endured had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in the eyes of some, would have been more winning than the glance of voluptuous languor. Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the throat, and my hair gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious--and, I may add, without vanity--the beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst was announced at last,--how I trembled as I heard his step in the hall! He entered, and greeting him with an extended hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in answer to my informal note, and motioned him to a chair. There was surprise and constraint in his manner, but he never once took his eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as he spoke to me. "You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began. "A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you." "Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly upon me, and his words seemed to be forced from him, even against his will,--"surely one so beautiful and so good cannot have anything like sin upon her soul----" Our gaze met, and from that moment we talked of everything but the case of conscience. All his restraint vanished. His eye flashed, his voice rolled deep and full; he was eloquent, and he was at home. We seemed to have been acquainted for years. We talked of history, poetry, the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art; and we talked without effort, as though our minds mingled together, without even the aid of voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,--it was twelve o'clock before we thought it nine. He rose to go. "I shall do myself the pleasure to call again," he said, and his voice faltered. I extended my hand; his hand met it in a gentle pressure. That touch decided our fate. As though my very being and his had rushed together and melted into one, in that slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood silent and confused,--one feeling in our gaze,--blushing and pale by turns. "Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "you will drive me mad," and sank half-fainting on his knees. I bent down and drew him to my breast, and covered his forehead with kisses. Pale, half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my arms. "Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I will be your good angel; I will cheer you in your mission of good. I will watch over you as you ascend, step by step, the difficult steep of fame; and Herman, I will love you." It was the first time that young brow had trembled to a woman's kiss. "Nay,--nay,--tempt me not," he murmured, and unwound my arms from his neck, and staggered to the door. But as he reached the threshold, he turned,--our gaze met,--he rushed forward with outspread arms,--