There was a pause; Kate hesitated, then resolutely replied—
"The truth—which always insists on making itself known, no doubt because it is good that it should be known. I think, Cornelius, that you acquit Daisy as you condemned her—too hastily; but that is a part of your character: you detest to suspect—a generous, imprudent feeling. You make too much or too little of proofs. Now it so chances that I have got one which escaped you this morning, when you would have held it conclusive; which I kept quiet, but never meant to suppress. I shall make no comments upon it, but simply lay it before you."
Her looks, her words, the gravity with which they were uttered, alarmed me. In the morning I had trusted implicitly to my innocence for justification: then I could not understand how facts should condemn me, when conscience held me guiltless; but now I knew better. I looked at Cornelius; perhaps he was only astonished; I fancied he seemed to doubt. All composure, all presence of mind forsook me. I threw myself in his arms, as in my only place of hope and refuge.
"Cornelius," I cried in my terror, "don't believe it; I don't know what it is, but don't believe it—pray don't."
He looked moved, and said to his sister—
"Not now, Kate, not now."
"Nonsense!" she replied, "it is too late to go back."
"I think it is," assented Cornelius, looking down at me. But I threw my arms around his neck, and looking up at his face with all the passionate entreaty of my heart—
"You won't believe it, Cornelius, will you?" I asked; "it's against me, I am sure; but you won't believe it?"
"No, indeed," he replied, with some emotion, "I will believe nothing against you, my poor child."