"Well，Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter - nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you，and regard me with a weary，passive look.

"Jane，I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter，that ate of his bread and drank of his cup，and lay in his bosom，had by some mistake slaughtered it omat the shambles，he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?"

Reader，I forgave him at the moment and on the spot. There was such deep remorse in his eye，such true pity in his tone，such manly energy in his manner; and besides，there was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien- I forgave him all: yet not in words，not outwardly; only at my heart"s core.

"You know I am a scoundrel，Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully- wondering，I suppose，at my continued silence and tameness，the result rather of weakness than of will.

"Yes，sir."

"Then tell me so roundly and sharply- don"t spare me."

"I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water." He heaved a sort of shuddering sigh，and taking me in his arms，carried me downstairs. At first I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed sight: presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for，summer as it was，I had bee icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he offered me，and was soon myself. I was in the library- sitting in his chair- he was quite near. "If I could go out of life now，without too sharp a pang，it would be well for me," I thought;