that yet. I must think, I must know what all this means," and she laid
her hand upon her heart. "God surely does not give so much love for
one's undoing; if I were not destined to comfort a life so saddened, He
would have bequeathed me more pity and less--" The lifted head fell, the
word she would have uttered, stirred her bosom, but not her lips.

It was a trial to his strength, but his firm man's heart did not waver.
"You do comfort me," said he; "from early morning to late night your
presence is my healing and my help, and will always be so, whatever may
befal. A daughter can do much, my Paula."

She took a step back towards the door, her eyes, dark with unfathomable
impulses, flashing on him through the tears that hung thickly on her
lashes.

"Is it for your own sake or for mine, that you make use of that word?"
said she.

He summoned up his courage, met that searching glance with all its wild,
bewildering beauty, and responded, "Can you ask, Paula?"

With a lift of her head that gave an almost queenly stateliness to her
form, she advanced a step, and drawing a crumpled paper from her pocket,
said, "When I went to my room last night, it was to read _two_ letters,
one from yourself, and one from Mr. Ensign. This is his, and a manly and
noble letter it is too; but hearts have right to hearts, and I was
obliged to refuse his petition." And with a reverent but inexorable
hand, she dropped the letter on the burning coals of the grate at their
side, and softly turned to leave the room.

"Paula!" With a bound the stern and hitherto forcibly repressed man,
leaped to her side. "My darling! my life!" and with a wild,
uncontrollable impulse, he caught her for one breathless moment to his
heart; then as suddenly released her, and laying his hand in reverence
on her brow, said softly, "Now go and pray, little one; and when you are
quite calm, an hour hence or a week hence whichever it may be, come and
tell me my fate as God and the angels reveal it to you." And he smiled,
and she saw his smile, and went out of the room softly, as one who
treadeth upon holy ground.

Mr. Sylvester was considered by his friends and admirers as a proud man.
If a vote had been cast among those who knew him best, as from what
especial passion common to humanity he would soonest recoil, it would
have been unanimously pronounced shame, and his own hand would have
emphasized the judgment of his fellows. But shame which is open to the
gaze of the