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 a way about 'mama,' it is enough to make one jealous of the old lady."

"She is not old, Robert."

"Of the young lady, then."

"She does not pretend to be young."

"Well—of the matron. But you said 'mama's' affection was one thing that made you happy; now for the other thing."

"I am glad you are better."

"What besides?"

"I am glad we are friends."

"You and I?"

"Yes: I once thought we never should be."

"Cary, some day I mean to tell you a thing about myself that is not to my credit, and, consequently, will not please you."

"Ah!—don't! I cannot bear to think ill of you."

"And I cannot bear that you should think better of me than I deserve."

"Well, but I half know your 'thing:' indeed, I believe I know all about it."

"You do not."

"I believe I do."

"Whom does it concern besides me?"

She coloured; she hesitated; she was silent.

"Speak, Cary!—whom does it concern?"

She tried to utter a name, and could not.

"Tell me: there is none present but ourselves: be frank."

"But if I guess wrong?"

"I will forgive. Whisper, Cary."

He bent his ear to her lips: still she would not,