The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in spite of all which I
could say. It led him to make me a singular revelation--to speak upon a
subject which I had never even dreamed of. His pride and caution seemed
wholly to have deserted him; and he continued as follows:

"You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call upon you. You are young.
But I know very well what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is
sufficient guaranty that you are competent to perform the trust--my
knowledge of your character is correct enough to induce me not to
hesitate. There is another tie between us. Do you suspect its nature? I
loved and would have married your mother. She was poor--I was equally
poor--I was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy when your mother's
pride made her refuse my suit. I married--I have not been happy. But
enough. I should never have spoken of this--never--but I am dying! As you
are faithful and true, St. George Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be
untarnished!"

There the interview ended. The doctor came in, and I retired to reflect
upon the singular communication which had been made to me. On the same
evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me. In a week the sick
gentleman was sleeping with his fathers. I held his hand when he died.

I shall not describe the grief and suffering of every one. I shall not
trust myself, especially, to speak of Annie. Her agony was almost
destructive to her health--and every throb which shook her frame, shook
mine as well. The sight of her face had revived, in an instant, all the
love of the past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now,
passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might win her love in
return, I thrilled with a vague delight.