ell they might be, for the hollow,
unnatural sound of either voice.

"It cannot be! I am crazy, I believe. Let me clear my--oh, Heaven!
Miriam! did--was--do you know whether there was any one in particular on
familiar terms with Miss Mayfield?"

"No one out of the family, except Miss Thornton."

"'Out of the family'--out of what family?"

"Ours, at the cottage."

"Was--did--I wonder if my brother knew her intimately?"

"I do not know; I never saw them in each other's company but twice in my
life."

The youth breathed a little freer.

"Why did you ask, Paul?"

"No matter, Miriam. Oh! I was a wretch, a beast to think--"

"What, Paul?"

"There are such strange resemblances in--in--in--What are you looking at
me so for, Miriam?"

"To find your meaning. In what, Paul--strange resemblances in what?"

"Why, in faces."

"Why, then, so there are--and in persons, also; and sometimes in fates;
but we were talking of handwritings, Paul."

"Were we? Oh, true. I am not quite right, Miriam. I believe I have
confined myself too much, and studied too hard. I am really out of
sorts; never mind me! Please hand me those foreign letters, love."

Miriam was unfolding and examining them; but all in a cold, stony,
unnatural way.

"Paul," she asked, "wasn't it just eight years this spring since your
brother went to Scotland to fetch you?"

"Yes; why?"

"Wasn't it to Glasgow that he went?"

"Yes; why?"

"Were not you there together in March and April, 182-?"

"Once more, yes! Why do you inquire?"

"Because all these foreign letters directed to Marian are postmarked
Glasgow, and dated March or April, 182-."

With a low, stifled cry, and a sudden spring, he snatched the packet
from her hand, tore open the first letter that presented itself, and ran
his strained, bloodshot eyes down the lines. Half-suppressed, deep
groans like those wrung by torture from a strong man's heart, burst from
his pale lips, and great drops of sweat gathered on his agonized
forehead. Then he crushed the letters together in his hand and held them
tightly, unconsciously, while his starting eyes were fixed on vacancy
and his frozen lips muttered:

"In a fit of frantic passion, anger, jealousy--even he might have been
maddened to the pitch of doing such a thing! But as an act of base
policy, as an act of forethought, oh! never, never, never!"

"Paul! Paul! speak to me, Paul. Tell me what you think. I have had
foreshadowings long. I can bear