“Was I in a revery? have I been dreaming?” cried he, suddenly, not regarding the scene, but turning his eyes fully upon herself. “And yet you 'd forgive me were I to confess to you of what it was I was thinking.”
“Then tell it directly, for I own your silence piqued me, and I stopped speaking when I perceived I was not listened to.”
“Perhaps I am too confident when I say you would forgive me?”
“You have it in your power to learn, at all events,” said she, laughingly.
“But not to recall my words if they should have been uttered rashly,” said he, slowly.
“Shall I tell you a great fault you have,—perhaps your greatest?” asked she, quickly.
“Do, I entreat of you.”
“And you pledge yourself to take my candor well, and bear me no malice afterwards?”
“It is a coldness,—a reserve almost amounting to distrust, which seems actually to dominate in your temper. Be frank with me, now, and say fairly, was not this long alley reylying all the thoughts of long ago, and were you not summing up the fifty-one little grudges you had against that poor silly child who used to torment and fret you, and, instead of honestly owning all this, you fell back upon that stern dignity of manner I have just complained of? Besides,” added she, as though hurried away by some strong impulse, “if it would quiet your spirit to know you were avenged, you may feel satisfied.”
“As how?” asked he, eagerly, and not comprehending to what she pointed.