You
have been very generous in taking me so fully on trust, but now
you shall know all. I am the only daughter of a poor, unworldly
New England clergyman. My mother died before I can remember, and
my father gave to me all the time he could spare from the duties
of a small village parish. He and the beautiful region in which
we lived were my only teachers. One June morning Harrold Fleetwood
came to the parsonage with letters of introduction, saying that his
physician had banished him from books and city life, and he asked
if he could be taken as a lodger for a few weeks. Poor and unworldly
as father was, for my sake he made careful inquiries and learned
that the young man was from one of the best and wealthiest families
of Boston, and bore an unblemished reputation. Then, since we were
so very poor, he yielded to Mr. Fleetwood's wishes, hoping thus to
be able to buy some books, he said, on which our minds could live
during the coming winter.
"To me, Harrold Fleetwood was a very remarkable character. While
he always treated me with kindness and respect, he did not take
much notice of me at first; and I think he found me very diffident,
to say the least.
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