by a little report which
Rose made to him in her most despairing manner. Adele had told her that
she "would never, never marry."

There are a great many mothers of fine families who have made such a
speech at twenty or thereabout; and Phil knew it.

LVI.

We by no means intend to represent our friend Adele as altogether a
saint. Such creatures are very rare, and not always the most lovable,
according to our poor human ways of thinking; but she may possibly grow
into saintship, in view of a certain sturdy religious sense of duty that
belongs to her, and a faith that is always glowing. At present she is a
high-spirited, sensitive girl,--not without her pride and her lesser
vanities, not without an immense capacity for loving and being loved,
but just now trembling under that shock to her sensibilities which we
have detailed,--but never fainting, never despairing. Not even
relinquishing her pride, but guarding it with triple defences, by her
reserve in respect to Phil, as well as by a certain new dignity of
manner which has grown out of her conflict with the opprobrium that
seems to threaten, for no fault of her own.

Adele sees clearly now the full burden of Reuben's proposal to cherish
and guard her against whatever indignities might threaten; she sees more
clearly than ever the rich, impulsive generosity of his nature
reflected, and it disturbs her grievously to think that she had met it
only with reproach. The thought of the mad, wild, godless career upon
which he may have entered, and of which the village gossips are full, is
hardly more afflictive to her than her recollection of that frank,
self-sacrificing generosity, so ignobly requited. She longs in her heart
to clear the debt,--to tell him what grateful sense she has of his
intended kindness. But how? Should she,--being what she is,--even by a
word, seem to invite a return of that devotion which may be was but the
passion of an hour, and which it were fatal to renew? Her pride revolts
at this. And yet--and yet--so brave a generosity shall not be wholly
unacknowledged. She writes:--

"Reuben, I know now the full weight of the favor of what you promised to
bestow upon me when I so blindly reproached you with intrusion upon my
private griefs. Forgive me, Reuben! I thank you now, late as it is, with
my whole heart. It is needless to tell you how I came to know what,
perhaps, I had better never have known, but which must always have
overhung me as a dark cloud