"When I copied this confession," said he, "I was heavy of heart.

I was sitting in a small room, looking far down into a valley where nature seemed to keep her darkness stored, and from, another window, in the east, I could see a mountain where she made her light." "Go on," she said, leaning with her elbows on the table.
He began to walk across the room, from the door to the grate, and to talk as one delivering a set oration.

"And I had just finished my work when a most annoying monkey, owned by the landlord, jumped through the window.

I was so startled that I threw the folded papers at him"-- "What have you done!" she cried.
He had thrown the letters into the fire, he sprang forward, and snatching them, threw them on the hearth and stamped out the blaze.
"Oh, I do wish you hadn't done that," she said, hoarse with alarm.
"Mother reads these letters every day, and--oh, I _do_ wish you hadn't done it! They are all scorched--ruined, and I wouldn't have her know that I took them out of her trunk for anything.

What shall we do about it?
Oh, I know you didn't mean to do it." He had looked appealingly at her.