with such lack of consideration. I have been peculiarly
placed," she blushingly proceeded. "A woman does not always know her own
heart, or if she does, sometimes hesitates to yield to its secret
impulses. I have led you astray these last few weeks, but I first went
astray myself. The real path in which I ought to tread, was only last
night revealed to me. I can say no more, Mr. Ensign."

"Nor is it necessary," replied he. "You have chosen the better path, and
the better man. May life abound in joys for you, Miss Fairchild."

She drew herself up and her hand went involuntarily to her heart. "It is
not joy I seek," said she, "but--"

"What?" He looked at her face lit with that heavenly gleam that visited
it in rare moments of deepest emotion, and wondered.

"Joy is in seeing the one you love happy," cried she; "earth holds none
that is sweeter or higher."

"Then may that be yours," he murmured, manfully subduing the jealous
pang natural under the circumstances. And taking the hand she held out
to him, he kissed it with greater reverence and truer affection than
when, in the first joyous hours of their intercourse, he carried it so
gallantly to his lips.

And she--oh, difference of time and feeling--did not remember as of
yore, the noble days of chivalry, though he was in this moment, so much
more than ever the true knight and the reproachless cavalier.

For Paula's heart was heavy. Fears too unsubstantial to be met and
vanquished, had haunted her steps all day. The short note which Mr.
Sylvester had written her, lay like lead upon her bosom. She longed for
the hours to fly, yet dreaded to hear the clock tick out the moments
that possibly were destined to bring her untold suffering and
disappointment. A revelation awaiting her in Mr. Sylvester's desk up
stairs? That meant separation and farewell; for words of promise and
devotion can be spoken, and the heart that hopes, does not limit time to
hours.

With Bertram's entrance, her fears took absolute shape. Mr. Sylvester
was not coming home to dinner. Thenceforward till seven o'clock, she sat
with her hand on her heart, waiting. At the stroke of the clock, she
rose, and procuring a candle from her room, went slowly up stairs.
"Watch for me," she had said to Aunt Belinda, "for I fear I shall need
your care when I come down."

What is there about a mystery however trivial, that thrills the heart
with vague expectancy at the least lift of the concealing curtain! As