k, I
feel; a piece of her bitter vengeance! Tell me the truth,
Miriam--who has done this devil's mischief?"

He suffered greatly, I saw--was terribly excited.

"So far from your surmise being just, Claude, I enjoin upon you, as a
man of honor, never to let her know the subject of this conference, in
which she has had no voluntary part. Placed as I am by my father's will,
which I never will gainsay, however bitter it may be to me; bound hand
and foot; indeed, in her power by its decisions for a term of years, her
knowledge of the fact that I had overheard her conversation with you in
my chamber when I lay stricken, helpless, if not unconscious (an
unwilling listener, I assure you, Claude, to every word you uttered),
would be a cause of endless misery to me and her. No, Evelyn has told me
nothing, believe me."

He staggered back from the mantel to his chair, sat down again
helplessly, and covered his face with his hands. The blush of shame
mounted above his fingers and crimsoned the very roots of his silken
hair. He trembled visibly.

O God! how I pitied him then! Self sank out of sight at that moment, and
I thought only of his confusion. Had I obeyed my impulse, I would have
cast my arms about his neck as about a brother's, and whispered, to that
stormy nature, "Peace, be still!" But I refrained from a manifestation
that might have deceived him utterly as to its source. I only said:

"I am very sorry, Claude, for all this; but bear it like a man. Believe
me, no one shall ever know the occasion of this rupture--the management
of which I leave entirely in your hands. Of what I overheard I shall
never speak, I promise you, even though sorely pressed for my reasons
for our separation. My own pride would prevent such a revelation, you
know, putting principle aside." And again I extended my hand to him
frankly, with the words, "Let us be friends."

He had glanced up a moment while I was speaking, evidently relieved by
my voluntary promise. He took my hand humbly now, and reverently kissed
it, bowing his head above it long and mutely.

"My poor, outraged, offended, noble Miriam!" I heard him murmur at last.
The words affected me.

"I am all these, Claude," I said, withdrawing my hand gently but firmly,
"but none the less your friend, if you will have it so. And now let us
think what will be best for you to do. I wish to spare your feelings as
much as possible, and I will say all I can with truth to exonerate you
in yo