“I vow.”

“Swear that no afterthoughts shall tempt you to falter; that happen what may in the changing years, you will not hesitate; that though your interests and affections should intervene, you will not suffer them to retard you in your purpose; that no effort, no sacrifice, no privation, no suffering of mind or body shall be spared, if needful, to the accomplishment of your vow.”

“I swear.”

“You will do it!  You are certain to discover the murderer, and clear up the mystery.”

The mental excitement that had carried Edith through this scene subsided, and left her very weak, so that when Thurston Willcoxen soon after called to see her, she was unable to receive him.

The next morning, however, Thurston repeated his visit, and was brought to the bedside of the invalid.

Thurston was frightfully changed, the sufferings of the last month seemed to have made him old—­his countenance was worn, his voice hollow, and his manner abstracted and uncertain.

“Edith,” he asked, as he took the chair near her head, “do you feel stronger this morning?”

“Yes—­I always do in the forenoon”

“Do you feel well enough to talk of Miriam and her future?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What do you propose to do with her?”

“I shall leave her to Aunt Henrietta—­she will never let the child want.”

“But Mrs. Waugh is quite an old lady now.  Jacquelina is insane, the commodore and Mrs. L’Oiseau scarcely competent to take care of themselves—­and Luckenough a sad, unpromising home for a little girl.”

“I know it—­oh!  I know it; why do you speak of it, since I can do no otherwise?”

“To point out how you may do otherwise, dear Edith.  It would have been cruel to mention it else.”

She looked up at him with surprise and inquiry.

“Edith, you have known me from my boyhood.  You know what I am.  Will you leave your orphan daughter to me?  You look at me in wonder; but listen, dear Edith, and then decide.  Marian—­dear martyred saint! loved that child as her own.  And I loved Marian—­loved her as I had never dreamed it possible for heart to love—­I cannot speak of this! it deprives me of reason,” he said, suddenly covering his eyes with his hands, while a spasm agitated his worn face.  In a few minutes he resumed.

“Look at me, Edith! the death of Marian has brought me to what you see!  My youth has melted away like a morning mist.  I have not an object in life except to carry out purposes which were dear to her benevolent heart, and which her sudden death has left incomplete.  I have not an affection in the world except that which comes through her.  I should love this child dearly, and cherish her devotedly for Marian’s sake.  I shall never change my bachelor life—­but I should like to legally adopt little Miriam.  I should give her the best educational advantages, and make her the co-heir with my young brother, Paul Douglass, of all I possess.  Say, Edith, can you trust your child to me?” He spoke earnestly, fervently, taking her hand and pressing it, and gazing pleadingly into her eyes.