"Yes; I have perfect reliance in his friendship."
"And in his love," he added; "why not finish the sentence?"
"Because I have no right to betray his confidence,—even supposing your assertion to be true. I have spoken of the only feeling, whose existence I am willing to admit, and even that was drawn from me. What if I turn inquisitor?" said I, suddenly emboldened to look in his face. "Have you, who have seen so much more of life, experienced the chilling influences which you deprecate for me?"
"I am naturally suspicious and distrustful," he answered. "Have you never been told so?"
"If I have, it required your own assertion to make me believe it."
"Do you not see the shadow on my brow? It has been there since my cradle hours. It was born with me, and is a part of myself,—just as much as the shadow I cast upon the sunshine. I can no more remove it than I could the thunder-cloud from Jehovah's arch."
I trembled at the strength of his language, and it seemed as if the shadow were stealing over my own soul. His employment was prophetic. He was pulling the rose-leaves from my basket, and scattering them unconsciously on the floor.
"See what I have done," said he, looking down on the wreck.
"So the roses of confidence are scattered and destroyed by the cruel hand of mistrust," cried I, stooping to gather the fallen petals.
"Let them be," said he, sadly, "you cannot restore them."