y the action of the
mind excels even that of light, Mr. Bainrothe was again settling himself
down in my father's deep chair, and now once more addressed me in a sad
and broken voice, perfectly well suited to the occasion.

"Miriam," he said, "I too have been an extensive loser through the
failure of the Bank of Pennsylvania. Like yourself, with the exception
of the house I now reside in, and some few small tenements I hold for
rent, I find every thing swept away from me. Claude, it is true, is
comfortable, and on his slender estate we must both now manage to
support ourselves. You see marriage on his part is now simply out of the
question. He has his father to take care of."

He said this last in so significant a tone, and apologetic a manner,
that its intent was unmistakable, little dreaming how transparent my
conviction of his crime had made his motives.

"As far as I am concerned, it was so eighteen months ago," I responded,
and the blood rushed indignantly to my brow. "Yet I hope," I added,
after a moment's hesitation, "that Claude may still marry and be happy."

"You are still vexed with that boy of mine, Miriam, I see that. Oh, you
are wrong, there! It was not for him, unfledged and inexperienced, to
weigh the precious diamond against the paste pretense! He could not see
you with the eyes of riper judgment and deep feeling accorded to those
who have studied life, and learned its loftiest lessons. Had he looked
through my eyes, Miriam--" (he was standing before me now, his arms
extended, his eyes blazing, his cheeks and lips strangely aglow), "he
would have seen you as you are, the rose, the ruby of the world." He
seized my hand impetuously, and pressed it to his lips, then rushed
wildly away. A moment later, he returned, silently. I was standing
before the silver cistern, I remember, washing away with my handkerchief
an invisible stain from my hand, child-fashion, a loathsome impress,
when I felt his audacious arms thrown suddenly around me, and his hot,
polluting kisses on my face.

"I love--I love you!" he hissed in my ear, "and sooner or later I will
possess you!"

Before I could strike him, spit upon him, strangle him with my
hands--the thief, the midnight robber, the slave of lust--he was gone
again. I heard my own wild shrieks resounding through the house, like
those of some strange lunatic. I was for a time frantic with rage and
shame. But no one came to my succor, except poor old Morton. He crept
fe