"You are speaking riddles," she faltered, averting her face.
"Not at all. I am glad indeed that you can give me simple friendship, unforced, uncompelled by any other motive than that which actuates you in regard to the others. But you know well—your most casual glance would reveal it to you—that I, in whom you have inspired some semblance of manhood, can never dream of any other woman. When you see this truth, as you often will, you must not punish me for it. You must not try to cure me by coldness or by any other of the conventional remedies, for you cannot. When we meet, speak kindly, look kindly; and should it ever be not best or right that we should meet,—that is, often,—we shall not."
"You are scarcely speaking as a friend," she said, in a low voice.
"Will you punish me if I cannot help being far more?"
"No, since you cannot help it," she replied, with a shy laugh.
A new light, a new hope, began to dawn upon him, and he was about to speak impetuously when Mr. Vosburgh appeared and said, "Merwyn, I've been watching two men who passed and repassed the house, and who seem to be reconnoitring."
As Merwyn and Marian accompanied him to the parlor they heard the heavy booming of cannon off on the east side, and it was repeated again and again.
"Those are ominous sounds at this time of night," said Mr. Vosburgh.
"That they don't come from the rioters is a comfort," Merwyn replied; "but it proves what I said before,—they are becoming more bold and reckless."
"It may also show that the authorities are more stern and relentless in dealing with them."