“What is the matter, dear, sister?” he asked, in that tender, familiar tone, with which he sometimes spoke to her.

“Oh, Paul, I am thinking of our brother!  Can nothing soothe or cheer him, Paul?  Can nothing help him?  Can we do him no good at all?  Oh, Paul!  I brood so much over his trouble!  I long so much to comfort him, that I do believe it is beginning to affect my reason, and make me ’see visions and dream dreams.’  Tell me—­do you think anything can be done for him?”

“Ah, I do not know!  I have just left his study, dear Miriam, where I have had a long and serious conversation with him.”

“And what was it about?  May I know?”

“You must know, dearest Miriam, it concerned yourself and—­me!” said Paul, and he took a seat by her side, and told her how much he loved her, and that he had Thurston’s consent to asking her hand in marriage.

Miriam replied: 

“Paul, there is one secret that I have never imparted to you—­not that I wished to keep it from you, but that nothing has occurred to call it out—­”

She paused, while Paul regarded her in much curiosity.

“What is it, Miriam?” he at last inquired.

“I promised my dying mother, and sealed the promise with an oath, never to be a bride until I shall have been—­”

“What, Miriam?”

“An avenger of blood!”

“Miriam!”

It was all he said, and then he remained gazing at her, as if he doubted her perfect sanity.

“I am not mad, dear Paul, though you look as if you thought so.”

“Explain yourself, dear Miriam.”

“I am going to do so.  You remember Marian Mayfield?” she said, her face beginning to quiver with emotion.

“Yes! yes! well?”

“You remember the time and manner of her death?”

“Yes—­yes!”

“Oh, Paul! that stormy night death fell like scattering lightning, and struck three places at once!  But, oh, Paul! such was the consternation and grief excited by the discovery of Marian’s assassination, that the two other sudden deaths passed almost unnoticed, except by the respective families of the deceased.  Child as I then was, Paul, I think it was the tremendous shock of her sudden and dreadful death, that threw me entirely out of my center, so that I have been erratic ever since.  She was more than a mother to me, Paul; and if I had been born hers, I could not have loved her better—­I loved her beyond all things in life.  In my dispassionate, reflective moments.  I am inclined to believe that I have never been quite right since the loss of Marian.  Not but that I am reconciled to it—­knowing that she must be happy—­only, Paul, I often feel that something is wrong here and here,” said Miriam, placing her hand upon her forehead and upon her heart.

“But your promise, Miriam—­your promise,” questioned Paul, with increased anxiety.

“Ay, true!  Well, Paul, I promised to devote my whole life to the pursuit and apprehension of her murderer; and never to give room in my bosom to any thought of love or marriage until that murderer should hang from n gallows; and I sealed that promise with a solemn oath.”