"But still you think it may be truth?"
"If I do think there is any mixture of truth in it, it is not from confidence in my own powers, but in his natural goodness.—And you have no right to call him a profligate, aunt; he is nothing of the kind."
"Who told you so, my dear? What was that story about his intrigue with a married lady—Lady who was it—Miss Wilmot herself was telling you the other day?"
"It was false—false!" I cried. "I don't believe a word of it."
"You think, then, that he a virtuous, well-conducted young man?"
"I know nothing positive respecting his character. I only know that I have heard nothing definitive against it—nothing that could be proved, at least; and till people can prove their slanderous accusations, I will not believe them. And I know this, that if he has committed errors, they are only such as are common to youth, and such as nobody thinks anything
