eyes were riveted on her face;
his tenderest memories of her were pleading with him. He answered as a
docile child might have answered.

"I do believe you."

She took a letter from her bosom; and, showing it, begged him to remark
that it was not closed.

"I was in my bedroom writing," she said, "When my mother came to me and
told me that you and Captain Bennydeck had met in my sitting-room. She
dreaded a quarrel and an exposure, and she urged me to go downstairs
and insist on sending you away--or permit her to do so, if I could not
prevail on myself to follow her advice. I refused to allow the shameful
dismissal of a man who had once had his claim on my respect. The only
alternative that I could see was to speak with you here, in private, as
we are speaking now. My mother undertook to manage this for me; she
saw the servant, and gave him the message which you received. Where is
Captain Bennydeck now?"

"He is waiting in the sitting-room."

"Waiting for you?"

"Yes."

She considered a little before she said her next words.

"I have brought with me what I was writing in my own room," she resumed,
"wishing to show it to you. Will you read it?"

She offered the letter to him. He hesitated. "Is it addressed to me?" he
asked.

"It is addressed to Captain Bennydeck," she answered.

The jealousy that still rankled in his mind--jealousy that he had
no more lawful or reasonable claim to feel than if he had been a
stranger--urged him to assume an indifference which he was far from
feeling. He begged that Catherine would accept his excuses.

She refused to excuse him.

"Before you decide," she said, "you ought at least to know why I have
written to Captain Bennydeck, instead of speaking to him as I had
proposed. My heart failed me when I thought of the distress that he
might feel--and, perhaps of the contempt of myself which, good and
gentle as he is, he might not be able to disguise. My letter tells him
the truth, without concealment. I am obliged to speak of the manner in
which you have treated me, and of the circumstances which forced me
into acts of deception that I now bitterly regret. I have tried not to
misrepresent you; I have been anxious to do you no wrong. It is for
you, not for me, to say if I have succeeded. Once more, will you read my
letter?"

The sad self-possession, the quiet dignity with which she spoke,
appealed to his memory of the pardon that she had so generously granted,
while he and Sydne