asking my pardon, and
thanking me.

"Are you not going to have one yourself?" he said, half rising.

"No, I don't want any to-night. Tell me if yours is right."

"Yes, it is very nice," he said absently, drinking some. Then rising
suddenly, he put the cup on the mantleshelf, and said to me, "Send Ann
away, I want to talk to you."

I told Ann I would ring for her when I wanted her, and sat down by the
lamp again, with many apprehensions.

"You asked me if anything had happened, Pauline, didn't you?" he said.

"No," I answered. "But I was sure that something had, from the way you
looked when you came in."

"It is something that--that changes things very much for you, Pauline,"
he resumed, with an effort, "and makes all our arrangements
unnecessary--that is, unless you choose."

I looked amazed and frightened, and he went on.

"I made a discovery last night in the library. The will is found,
Pauline."

I started to my feet, with my hands pressed against my heart, waiting
breathlessly for his next word.

"Everything is left to you--and I have come to tell you, you are
free--if you desire to be."

"Oh, thank God! Thank God!" I cried; then covering my face with my
hands, sank back into my seat, and burst into tears.

He turned from me and walked to the other end of the room; each of us
lived much in that little time.

For myself, I had accepted my bondage so meekly, so dutifully, that I
did not know the weight it had been upon me till it was suddenly taken
off. I did not think of him--I could only think, there was no next
Wednesday, and I could stay where I was. It was like the sudden
cessation of dreadful and long-continued pain: it was Heaven. I was
crying for joy. But at last the reaction came, and I had to think
of him.

"Oh, Richard," I cried, going toward him, (he was sitting by the window,
and his hand concealed his eyes.) "I don't know what you think of me, I
hope you can forgive me."

He did not speak, and I felt a dreadful pang of self-reproach.

"Richard," I said, crying, and taking hold of his hand, "I am ashamed of
myself for being glad. I will marry you yet, if you want me to. I know
how good you have been to me. I know I am ungrateful and abominable."

Still he did not speak. His very lips were white, and his hand, when I
touched it, did not meet mine or move.

"You are angry with me," I cried, bursting into a flood of tears. "Oh,
how you ought to hate me. Oh, I wish we had never seen