she bent her head, as if at once to thank him, and acknowledge his sincerity.
"The disparity between our ages," said the gentleman, "and the plainness of my purpose, empower me, I am glad to think, to speak my mind. That is my mind; and so you see me for the second time."
"There is a kind of pride, Sir," she returned, after a moment’s silence, "or what may be supposed to be pride, which is mere duty. I hope I cherish no other."
"For yourself," he said.
"For myself."
"But—pardon me—" suggested the gentleman. "For your brother John?"
"Proud of his love, I am," said Harriet, looking full upon her visitor, and changing her manner on the instant—not that it was less composed and quiet, but that there was a deep impassioned earnestness in it that made the very tremble in her voice a part of her firmness, "and proud of him. Sir, you who strangely know the story of his life, and repeated it to me when you were here last—"
"Merely to make my way into your confidence," interposed the gentleman. "For heaven’s sake, don’t suppose—"
"I am sure," she said, "you revived it, in my hearing, with a kind and good purpose. I am quite sure of it."
"I thank you," returned her visitor, pressing her hand hastily. "I am much obliged to you. You do me justice, I assure you. You were going to say, that I, who know the story of John Carker’s life—"
"May think it pride in me," she continued, "when I say that I am proud of him! I am. You know the time was, when I was not—when I could not be—but that is past. The humility of many years, the uncomplaining expiation, the true repentance, the terrible regret, the pain I know he has even in my affection, which he thinks has cost me dear, though Heaven knows I am happy, but for his sorrow!—oh, Sir, after what I have seen, let me conjure you, if you are in any place of power, and are ever wronged, never, for any wrong, inflict a punishment that cannot be recalled; while there is a God above us to work changes in the hearts He made."
"Your brother is an altered man," returned the gentleman, compassionately. "I assure you I don’t doubt it."
"He was an altered man when he did wrong," said Harriet. "He is an altered man again, and is his true self now, believe me, Sir."
"But we go on," said her visitor, rubbing his forehead, in an absent manner, with his hand, and then drumming thoughtfully on the table, "we go on in our clockwork routine, from day to day, and can’t make out, or follow, these changes. They—they ’re a metaphysical sort of thing. We—we haven’t leisure for it. We—we haven’t courage. They ’re not taught at schools or colleges, and we don’t know how to set about it. In short, we are so dd business-like,’ said the gentleman, walking to the window, and back, and sitting down again, in a state of extreme dissatisfaction and vexation.
"I am sure," said the gentleman, rubbing his forehead again; and drumming on the table as before, "I have good reason to believe that a
