“It is the mirror of truth,” said her visitor, “and gentleness. Excuse my trusting to it, and returning.”
His manner of saying these words, divested them entirely of the character of compliments. It was so plain, grave, unaffected, and sincere, that she bent her head, as if at once to thank him, and acknowledge his sincerity.
“The disparity between our ages,” said the gentleman, “and the plainness of my purpose, empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is my mind; and so you see me for the second time.”
“There is a kind of pride, Sir,” she returned, after a moment’s silence, “or what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other.”
“For yourself,” he said.
“For myself.”
“But—pardon me—” suggested the gentleman. “For your brother John?”
“Proud of his love, I am,” said Harriet, looking full upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the instant—not that it was less composed and quiet, but that there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, “and proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated it to me when you were here last—”
“Merely to make my way into your confidence,” interposed the gentleman. “For heaven’s sake, don’t suppose—”
“I am sure,” she said, “you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it.”