Mother’s absence was nearly at an end, and father had gone on Saturday to Aunt Phebe’s to spend the Sabbath, and was to bring mother back on Monday.

Sabbath evening Hal went over to Deacon Snow’s, Clara was in her room writing to Louis, Ben reading in the kitchen, and I was left with Mr. Benton in Hal’s room.  This night was never to be forgotten, for although from time to time I had been forced to notice the great change in his manner toward me, I was unprepared for what occurred, and unconscious that he had so misunderstood and perverted my motives in that fated talk.  I cannot tell you all he said, nor how he said it, but I was thoroughly confused and startled by his protestations, and could only say: 

“Mr. Benton, I do not desire to hear this; I cannot understand it; you have been mistaken,” etc.

To all of which he replied as if deeply pained, and I believed in his sorrow and despised myself.  I could not and did not tell him of Louis, for when I thought of it, it seemed too sacred, and he had no right to this knowledge.  I was overwhelmed with strange and unpleasant feelings; there was no satisfaction in the thought of having heard these declarations; it was an experience I would fain have avoided.  His talk to Clara, too, came to my aid, and rallying a little, I said: 

“It is not long since you felt you could not live without the love of Clara’s heart; how strangely all your feelings must have changed.  This perplexes me, Mr. Benton.”

He raised his head from his hands—­he had been sitting some moments in a despairing attitude, evidently struggling with great emotion—­and answered: 

“It is natural that this should perplex you, and I am prepared for it.  Years of lonely waiting and yearning for the love of a true heart, have, perhaps, made me seize too readily on any promise of hope and sympathy.  I was certainly fascinated with Mrs. Desmonde, and told her of my feelings, prematurely as it proved, for the more I knew of her, the more convinced I grew of her unfitness, I might almost say for earth, although she still is beautiful to me.  But you, Emily, are a woman of strength and will, of a strength that will grow, for your years do not yet number twenty-one; these years have already given you maturity and power, and I respect and admire you, and I believe I could worship you if you would let me.”

This was stranger talk than I could endure, and I broke out passionately: 

“You need not ever try; I do not want you to, for I shall never love you, and you are also old enough to be my father.”  I cannot tell why I should have made this great mistake for which I immediately reproached myself.

The lines in Mr. Benton’s face grew a little sharper, and the gleam of his eye for a second was like a fierce light, and he answered gravely: 

“My years do number more, but in my heart I stand beside you.  I would have waited longer to tell you, but I am going away.”  I looked wonderingly.  “A friend is ill.  I go to him; then to Chicago to see some of our statuettes, and then if your parents will board me here, shall return for the summer, unless,” and his eyes dropped hopelessly, his voice trembled, “unless,” raising his eyes to mine appealingly, “I shall be too unwelcome a friend to remain.”