"Who now to sense, and now to nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about his 'meaning.'"
"And how in the world will you set about it?" he asked.
"Ah! There I want your advice, Tom. I don't think it will do for me to go to the farm. There would be more suspicions then, I suppose."
"Yes, decidedly, I should say. No, I wouldn't go to the farm if I were you."
"I am glad you think as I do about that," rejoined John Tincroft, beamingly. "For, to tell you the truth—may I, Tom? I know I may, though, and that you won't betray me."
"Not I, John. Say on."
"Well—" and then he whispered in his friend's ear, "if things hadn't been as they were with me, and if Sarah Wilson had been free, I should have been proud to make her my wife; but under all the circumstances of the case, it wasn't to be dreamt of for a moment. I didn't think so much about it then as I ought to have done. And I ought to have kept away on that very account. But I have seen my terrible mistake since, and must do my best to remedy it."
"Whew!" whistled Tom. "You want to put yourself out of temptation, then?"
"No, the temptation is past and gone, I hope. At least, I know I have striven and prayed against it. No, it is not of myself I am thinking, but of her. And it strikes me—doesn't it you?—that if I were to go and see your brother and Mr. Rubric, and tell them honestly that all the fault was mine, and that the poor girl was as innocent of anything like flirting as any modest girl could be, don't you think they would believe me, and try to sot matters straight again?"
"They would believe you, of course, John, as readily and strongly as I do. But as to setting matters straight—well, I think it likely they would try. I know they feel a good deal for—well, say for Walter Wilson, and I daresay they will for his cousin when things are put before them in the way you have put them now."