"Why do you treat me thus, Edward? Why do you neglect me as you

do--as if I were a stranger, or, at least, not a friend? What have

I done to merit this usage from one who---"

She did not finish the sentence, but her reproachful eyes, full

of a dewy suffusion that seemed very much like tears, appeared to

conclude it thus-"One who--used to love me!"

So different was this speech from any that I looked for--so different

from what the usage of our conventional world would have seemed

to justify--so strange for one so timid, so silent usually on the

subject of her own griefs, as Julia Clifford--that I was absolutely

confounded. Where had she got this courage? By what strong feeling

had it been stimulated? Had I been at that time as well acquainted

with the sex as I have grown since, I must have seen that nothing

but a deep interest in my conduct and regard, could possibly have

prompted the spirit of one so gentle and shrinking, to the utterance

of so searching an appeal. And in what way could I answer it?

How could I excuse myself? What say, to justify that cold, rude

indifference to a relative, and one who had ever been gentle and

kind and true to me. I had really nothing to complain of. The vexing

jealousies of my own suspicious heart had alone informed it to its

perversion; and there I stood--dumb, confused, stupid-speaking,

when I did speak, some incoherent, meaningless sentences, which

could no more have been understood by her than they can now be

remembered by me. I recovered myself, however, sufficiently soon

to say, before we were separated by the movements of the crowd:"I will come to you to-morrow, Julia. Will you suffer me to see

you in the morning, say at twelve?"

"Yes, come!" was all her answer; and the next moment the harsh

accents of her ever-watchful mother warned us to risk no more.




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