ay now to attend to them."

She drew a deep breath. "O!" she cried, "would that he had a son, a
daughter, a child, some one!"

This exclamation following what had taken place above struck Bertram
forcibly. "He has a son in me, Paula. Love as well as duty binds me to
him. All that a child could do will I perform with pleasure. You can
trust me for that."

She threw him a glance of searching inquiry. "His need is greater than
it seems," whispered she. "He was deeply troubled before this terrible
accident occurred. I am afraid the arrow is poisoned that has made this
dreadful wound. I cannot explain myself," she went on hurriedly, "but if
you indeed regard him as a father, be ready with any comfort, any help,
that affection can bestow, or his necessities require. Let me feel that
he has near him some stay that will not yield to pressure."

There was so much passion in this appeal that Bertram involuntarily
bowed his head. "He has two friends," said he, "and here is my hand that
I will never forsake him."

"I do not need to offer mine," she returned, "He is great and good
enough to do without my assistance." But nevertheless she gave her hand
to Bertram and with a glow of her lip and eye that made her beauty,
supreme at all times, something almost supernatural in its character.

"I dared not tell him," she whispered to herself as the front door
closed with the dull slow thud proper to a house of mourning. "I dare
not tell any one, but--"

What lay beyond that but?

When Mr. Sylvester came in at six o'clock in the morning, Paula had
risen from the bed on which she had been sitting, but not to make
preparation for rest, for she could not rest. The vague shadow of some
surrounding evil or threatened catastrophe was upon her, and though she
forced herself to change her dress for a warmer and more suitable one,
she did not otherwise break her vigil, though the necessity for it
seemed to be at an end. It was a midwinter morning and the sun had not
yet risen, so being chilly as well as restless, she began to pace the
floor, stopping now and then to glance out of the window, in the hopes
of detecting some signs of awakening day in the blank and solemn east.
Suddenly as she was thus consulting the horizon, a light flashed up from
below, and looking down upon the face of the extension that ran along at
right angles to her window, she perceived that the shades were up in
Mrs. Sylvester's boudoir. They had doubtless been left