l; I care not if they never
come. I shall be proud to receive M. Miret's daughters."

"Besides these," pursued he, "another pupil offers, who will come daily
to take lessons in English; and as she is rich, she will pay
handsomely. I mean my god-daughter and ward, Justine Marie Sauveur."

What is in a name?--what in three words? Till this moment I had
listened with living joy--I had answered with gleeful quickness; a name
froze me; three words struck me mute. The effect could not be hidden,
and indeed I scarce tried to hide it.

"What now?" said M. Paul.

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Your countenance changes: your colour and your very eyes
fade. Nothing! You must be ill; you have some suffering; tell me what."

I had nothing to tell.

He drew his chair nearer. He did not grow vexed, though I continued
silent and icy. He tried to win a word; he entreated with perseverance,
he waited with patience.

"Justine Marie is a good girl," said he, "docile and amiable; not
quick--but you will like her."

"I think not. I think she must not come here."

Such was my speech.

"Do you wish to puzzle me? Do you know her? But, in truth, there _is_
something. Again you are pale as that statue. Rely on Paul Carlos; tell
him the grief."

His chair touched mine; his hand, quietly advanced, turned me towards
him.

"Do you know Marie Justine?" said he again.

The name re-pronounced by his lips overcame me unaccountably. It did
not prostrate--no, it stirred me up, running with haste and heat
through my veins--recalling an hour of quick pain, many days and nights
of heart-sickness. Near me as he now sat, strongly and closely as he
had long twined his life in mine--far as had progressed, and near as
was achieved our minds' and affections' assimilation--the very
suggestion of interference, of heart-separation, could be heard only
with a fermenting excitement, an impetuous throe, a disdainful resolve,
an ire, a resistance of which no human eye or cheek could hide the
flame, nor any truth-accustomed human tongue curb the cry.

"I want to tell you something," I said: "I want to tell you all."

"Speak, Lucy; come near; speak. Who prizes you, if I do not? Who is
your friend, if not Emanuel? Speak!"

I spoke. All escaped from my lips. I lacked not words now; fast I
narrated; fluent I told my tale; it streamed on my tongue. I went back
to the night in the park; I mentioned the medicated draught--why it was
given--its goading effect--how it