"If that friend had done something which you could not understand, something which seemed incompatible with his character, and that he remained silent, that he explained nothing, what would you do? Would you write to him? Or would you, rather, say, 'I will not allow my trust to be shaken because I do not understand his conduct. He has his own reasons for remaining silent. It is not for me to force an explanation from him.'"
He looked at her fixedly for a moment, then answered, in his decided way,
"There is a higher trust than that implied by silence—the confidence that my friend will not misunderstand me. I should certainly speak. If he says, 'I can tell you nothing,' that is enough. My trust would remain unshaken; but I am bound, by that very trust, to speak openly to him, not to let the shadow of misapprehension exist between us."
"Those are brave words. I believe you are right. False pride often prevents such directness in real life, and," she added, with a smile, "still more often in novels. But, of course, there may be a complication of causes, which renders it more difficult to speak in—in some cases than in others."
"Of course; but I fancy the difficulty depends more upon the character of the speaker than the circumstances. You, for instance, might speak to any one whom you had really made your friend without fear of misconception, no matter under what circumstances."
She looked away. "I am glad you think that. I shall remember your words."
Here Molly burst into the room, with a telegram for Grace in one hand, and a paraffine lamp, which in her haste she nearly upset, in the other.
"The bhoy's a-waitin' for the answer, bekase it's paid for."
The telegram ran thus,
"Aunt Susan arrived. Gone to the Hurlstones. Can meet you to-morrow in Boston, if you do not wish to stay till Monday where you are."