e on, and the storm approached, I grew uneasy upon Marian's
account, and sent Melchisedek in the gig to fetch her from the beach to
this house--never to leave it. Miriam, the boy reached the sands only to
find her dying. Terrified half out of his senses, he hurried back and
told me this story. I forgot my dying relative--forgot everything, but
that my wife lay wounded and exposed on the beach. I sprung upon
horseback, and galloped with all possible haste to the spot. By the time
I had got there the storm had reached its height, and the beach was
completely covered with the boiling waves. My Marian had been carried
away. I spent the wretched night in wandering up and down the bluff
above the beach, and calling on her name. In the morning I returned home
to find my grandfather dead, and the family and physicians wondering at
my strange absence at such a time. That, Miriam, is the story."

Miriam made no comment whatever. Mr. Willcoxen seemed surprised and
grieved at her silence.

"What have you now to say, Miriam?"

"Nothing."

"'Nothing?' What do you think of my explanation?"

"I think nothing. My mind is in an agony of doubt and conjecture. I must
be governed by stern facts--not by my own prepossessions. I must act
upon the evidences in my possession--not upon your explanation of them,"
said Miriam, distractedly, as she arose to leave the room.

"And you will denounce me, Miriam?"

"It is my insupportable duty! it is my fate! my doom! for it will kill
me!"

"Yet you will do it!"

"I will."

"Yet turn, dear Miriam! Look on me once more! take my hand! since you
act from necessity, do nothing from anger--turn and take my hand."

She turned and stood--such a picture of tearless agony! She met his
gentle, compassionate glance--it melted--it subdued her.

"Oh, would Heaven that I might die, rather than do this thing! Would
Heaven I might die! for my heart turns to you; it turns, and I love you
so--oh! I love you so! never, never so much as now! my brother! my
brother!" and she sunk down and seized his hands and wept over them.

"What, Miriam! do you love me, believing me to be guilty?"

"To have been guilty--not to be guilty--you have suffered remorse--you
have repented, these many long and wretched years. Oh! surely repentance
washes out guilt!"

"And you can now caress and weep over my hands, believing them to have
been crimsoned with the life-stream of your first and best friend?"

"Yes! yes! yes! yes!