e was in
haste, as he wished to prepare the packet for the next mail. I rose at
once. In his hurry he knocked the little japanned box on to the floor.
Begging pardon for his awkwardness, he picked it up, and looked at it a
moment to assure himself that it had suffered no damage.

"'It is a curious little thing,' said he, 'and looks as if it were a
hundred years old.'

"'It belonged once to my grandmother, and held pearl-powder and rouge,'
said I.

"'And is used for the same purpose now?' inquired he.

"'Yes,' returned I, my cheek reddening a little. 'I was just putting
some on as you entered.'

"'It must be very uncommon rouge,' remarked he, quietly fixing his eyes
on me; 'it grows red after it is put on, and must require much care in
the use of it.'

"'I thought you were in a great hurry, Thornton, when you came in.'

"'And so I am';--and he began undoing and separating papers, but every
few moments he would steal a glance--a glance that made me feel
uneasy--towards me, as I sat at the other window busying myself with my
needle.

"_August_ 25.--I wish Eleanor would come home. I sometimes think I will
go away; but to leave Ashcroft now would imply a doubt of Thornton's
honor, and impute thoughts to him which perhaps have no existence but
in my vanity.

"_October_ 3.--Ah, why was I so foolish? Why did I not go when I saw the
danger so clearly, instead of cheating myself into the belief that
there was none? Would that I had never come to Ashcroft, or had had the
courage to leave it! These last six weeks, I do not know, I cannot
tell, how they have been spent. Thornton was ever by my side, and
I--did not wish him away. We sat this afternoon on the lawn under the
great ash-tree,--the one under which he sat reading Dante to Eleanor
the last day she was with us. The love which had burned in his eyes all
day found utterance at last, and flamed out in fiery, passionate words.
He drew me towards him. His vehemence frightened me, and I muttered
something about Eleanor. It checked him for a moment, but, quickly
recovering, he spoke freely of himself and of her,--of the love which
had existed between them,--a feeling so feeble and so poor, compared to
that which he felt for me, as to be unworthy of the name. He entreated,
he implored my love. I was silent. He bent over me, gazing into my
face. There was a traitor lurking in my heart, which looked out of my
eyes, and spoke without my consent. He understood that language