Let me try if I can call to mind the substance of it.
He began in the most strangely sudden way by asking: “Why should there be any fear of discovery, when every possible care had been taken to prevent it? The danger from unexpected events was far more disquieting. A man might find himself bound in honor to disclose what it had been the chief anxiety of his life to conceal. For example, could he let an innocent person be the victim of deliberate suppression of the truth—no matter how justifiable that suppression might appear to be? On the other hand, dreadful consequences might follow an honorable confession. There might be a cruel sacrifice of tender affection; there might be a shocking betrayal of innocent hope and trust.”
I remember those last words, just as he dictated them, because he suddenly stopped there; looking, poor dear, distressed and confused. He put his hand to his head, and went back to the sofa.
“I’m tired,” he said. “Wait for me while I rest.”
In a few minutes he fell asleep. It was a deep repose that came to him now; and, though I don’t think it lasted much longer than half an hour, it produced a wonderful change in him for the better when he woke. He spoke quietly and kindly; and when he returned to me at the table and looked at the page on which I had been writing, he smiled.
“Oh, my dear, what bad writing! I declare I can’t read what I myself told you to write. No! no! don’t be downhearted about it. You are not used to writing from dictation; and I daresay I have been too quick for you.” He kissed me and encouraged me. “You know how fond I am of my little girl,” he said; “I am afraid I like my Eunice just the least in the world more than I like my Helena. Ah, you are beginning to look a little happier now!”
He had filled me with such confidence and such pleasure that I could not help thinking of my sweetheart. Oh dear, when shall I learn to be distrustful of my own feelings? The temptation to say a good word for Philip quite mastered any little discretion that I possessed.
I said to papa: “If you knew how to make me happier than I have ever been in all my life before, would you do it?”
“Of course I would.”
“Then send for Philip, dear, and be a little kinder to him, this time.”