ore than he had said yet. No! The words
seemed to stick in his throat. Not one of them would pass his lips.

"Give me time," he pleaded piteously. "I can't bring myself to it, all
at once. I mean well. Upon my soul, I mean well. But I am slow at this
sort of thing. Wait till to-morrow."

To-morrow came--and again he put it off.

"One more day!" he said. "You don't know how hard it is to speak
plainly. I am half afraid; I am half ashamed. Give me one more day."

I had hitherto only disliked him. Try as I might (and did) to make
merciful allowance for his reserve, I began to despise him now.

VIII.

THE day of the deferred confession came, and brought an event with it,
for which both he and I were alike unprepared. Would he really have
confided in me but for that event? He must either have done it, or have
abandoned the purpose which had led him into my house.

We met as usual at the breakfast-table. My housekeeper brought in my
letters of the morning. To my surprise, instead of leaving the room
again as usual, she walked round to the other side of the table, and
laid a letter before my senior pupil--the first letter, since his
residence with me, which had been delivered to him under my roof.

He started, and took up the letter. He looked at the address. A spasm
of suppressed fury passed across his face; his breath came quickly; his
hand trembled as it held the letter. So far, I said nothing. I waited to
see whether he would open the envelope in my presence or not.

He was afraid to open it in my presence. He got on his feet; he said,
in tones so low that I could barely hear him: "Please excuse me for a
minute"--and left the room.

I waited for half an hour--for a quarter of an hour after that--and then
I sent to ask if he had forgotten his breakfast.

In a minute more, I heard his footstep in the hall. He opened
the breakfast-room door, and stood on the threshold, with a small
traveling-bag in his hand.

"I beg your pardon," he said, still standing at the door. "I must ask
for leave of absence for a day or two. Business in London."

"Can I be of any use?" I asked. "I am afraid your letter has brought you
bad news?"

"Yes," he said shortly. "Bad news. I have no time for breakfast."

"Wait a few minutes," I urged. "Wait long enough to treat me like your
friend--to tell me what your trouble is before you go."

He made no reply. He stepped into the hall and closed the door--then
opened it again a little wa