Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny Lansdale at church; made the acquaintance of her father--a grave citizen, who regarded me as a sincere devotee--and induced Fanny to become a frequent visitor at my house. She confided all to me. She loved Herman devotedly, and looked forward to their marriage as the most certain event in the world. She was a very pretty child, with clear blue eyes, luxuriant hair, and a look of bewitching archness. I do not step aside from the truth, when I state that I sincerely loved her; although it is also true, that I never suffered myself to think of her marriage with Herman as anything but an impossible dream. An incident took place one summer evening, about a year after Herman's first visit to my house, which, slight as it was, it is just as well to relate. It is such slight incidents which often decide the fate of a lifetime, and strike down the barrier between innocence and crime. I was sitting on the sofa at the back window of the parlor, and Fanny sat on the stool at my feet. The light of the setting sun shone over my shoulders, and lighted up her face, as her clasped hands rested on my knees, and her happy, guileless look, was centered on my countenance. As I gazed upon that innocent face, full of youth and hope, I was reminded of my own early days; and at the memory, a tear rolled down my cheek. "Yes, you shall marry Herman," the thought flashed over my mind; "and I will aid you, Fanny; yes, I will resign Herman to you." At this moment Herman entered noiselessly, and took his place by my shoulder; and, without a word, gazed first into my face and then into the face of Fanny. Oh, that look! It was never forgotten. It was fate. For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking through eyes, can say--"Thou, Marion, art my mistress, the companion of my illicit and sensual love; but thou, Fanny, art my wife, the pure partner of my lawful love!" After that look, Herman bade us good evening! in a tone of evident agitation, and hurried from the room.