“Which of us, Fanny, mightn’t, with truth, say the same of ourselves?”

“Of course, none of us,” said Fanny; “don’t think I’m judging you; you asked me the question,—­and I suppose you wanted an answer.”

“I did; I wanted a true one—­for though you may never have given yourself much trouble to form an opinion about me, I am anxious that you should do so now.  I don’t want to trouble you with what is done and past; I don’t want to make it appear that I have not been thoughtless and imprudent—­wicked and iniquitous, if you are fond of strong terms; neither do I want to trouble you with confessing all my improprieties, that I may regularly receive absolution.  But I do wish you to believe that I have done nothing which should exclude me from your future good opinion; from your friendship and esteem.”

“I am not of an unforgiving temperament, even had you done anything for me to forgive:  but I am not aware that you have.”

“No; nothing for you to forgive, in the light of an offence to yourself; but much, perhaps, to prevent your being willing to regard me as a personal friend.  We’re not only first cousins, Fanny, but are placed more closely together than cousins usually are.  You have neither father nor mother; now, also, you have no brother,” and he took her hands in his own as he said so.  “Who should be a brother to you, if I am not? who, at any rate, should you look on as a friend, if not on me?  Nobody could be better, I believe, than Selina; but she is stiff, and cold—­unlike you in everything.  I should be so happy if I could be the friend—­the friend of friends you spoke of the other evening; if I could fill the place which must be empty near your heart.  I can never be this to you, if you believe that anything in my past life has been really disgraceful.  It is for this reason that I want to know what you truly think of me.  I won’t deny that I am anxious you should think well of me:—­well, at any rate for the present, and the future, and charitably as regards the past.”

Fanny had been taken much by surprise by the turn her cousin had given to the conversation; and was so much affected, that, before he had finished, she was in tears.  She had taken her hand out of his, to put her handkerchief to her eyes, and as she did not immediately answer, he continued: 

“I shall probably be much here for some time to come—­such, at least, are my present plans; and I hope that while I am, we shall become friends:  not such friends, Fanny, as you and Judith O’Joscelyn—­friends only of circumstance, who have neither tastes, habits, or feelings in common—­friends whose friendship consists in living in the same parish, and meeting each other once or twice a week; but friends in reality—­friends in confidence—­friends in mutual dependence—­friends in love—­friends, dear Fanny, as cousins situated as we are should be to each other.”