“Miss Hungerford, perhaps I am rash and foolhardy. I feel that I am; but I cannot endure the painful anxiety in which I have existed during the last two months,” the doctor began. “You despise me; you are disgusted with me.” “You wrong me, and you wrong yourself, Dr. Lynch.” “It would not be unnatural that you should do so.” “On the contrary, it would be more than strange if one for whom you have done so much should regard you with any other feelings than respect and esteem.” “Miss Hungerford, you know what wrong I have done; you know how grossly and inexcusably I have injured your brother’s best friend--one who had been more than a friend to me.” “Why need you mention this unpleasant matter, doctor? It is past and forgotten.” “It cannot be forgotten; at least, not by me. The wrong was too grievous to rest lightly on my awakened conscience.” “It was a grievous wrong, Dr. Lynch; it would be worse than foolish to deny it.” The doctor did not appear to be encouraged by this remark. “There was nothing to palliate it,” he added, meekly. “Nothing, doctor; no attempt was made on your part to justify or excuse your conduct, which makes your friends all the more ready to forget and forgive.” “I may be forgiven as the condemned criminal is forgiven, but I am despised as he is despised.” “Far from it, doctor. Your confession, and the manly reparation you made, have atoned for the error; and for one, I must beg you never to allude to it again. One who has been so kind to us cannot be despised, or even regarded with coldness.” “Miss Hungerford, you do not know what I have suffered. Long before the trial, long before Mr. Birch had the means of proving his innocence, I was convicted of my error. My penitence dates, not from the day Ross Kingman was tried, but from the day when you, lying at death’s door, opened your eyes and smiled upon me. It was your look that conquered me, not the fear of public disgrace. Miss Hungerford, I love you! Do not spurn me.” “I am honored by your preference,” stammered Julia. “You saved me from myself. As I bent over you, pale, wasted, almost in heaven, you seemed like an angel sent to convict and condemn me. I was convicted and condemned. O, how I loathed myself!” continued the doctor, earnestly. “You were very kind to me then.” “If I could have lain down in the grave, and gone to heaven with you, how happy I should have been! I was not fit for heaven; I was not fit even for the presence of the angel whom I had labored to save from the arms of death.” “You are sentimental, doctor,” added Julia, trying to smile.