“That was all very strange, dear Miriam.”

“Paul, yes it was—­and it weighs upon me like lead.  Paul, if two things could be lifted off my heart, I should be happy.  I should be happy as a freed bird.”

“And what are they, dear Miriam?  What weights are they that I have not power to lift from your heart?”

“Surely you may surmise—­the first is our brother’s sadness that oppresses my spirits all the time; the second is the memory of that unaccomplished vow; so equally do these two anxieties divide my thoughts, that they seem connected—­seem to be parts of the same responsibility—­and I even dreamed that the one could be accomplished only with the other.”

“Dearest Miriam, let me assure you, that such dreams and visions are but the effect of your isolated life—­they come from an over-heated brain and over-strained nerves.  And you must consent to throw off those self-imposed weights, and be happy and joyous as a young creature should.”

“Alas, how can I throw them off, dear Paul?”

“In this way—­first, for my brother’s life-long sorrow, since you can neither cure nor alleviate it, turn your thoughts away from it.  As for your vow, two circumstances combine to absolve you from it; the first is this—­that you were an irresponsible infant, when you were required to make it—­the second is, that it is impossible to perform it; these two considerations fairly release you from its obligations.  Look upon these matters in this rational light, and all your dark and morbid dreams and visions will disappear; and we shall have you joyous as any young bird, sure enough.  And I assure you, that your cheerfulness will be one of the very best medicines for our brother.  Will you follow my advice?”

“No, no, Paul!  I cannot follow it in either instance!  I cannot, Paul! it is impossible!  I cannot steel my heart against sympathy with his sorrows, nor can I so ignore the requirements of my solemn vow.  I do not by any means think its accomplishment an impossibility, nor was it in ignorance of its nature that I made it.  No, Paul!  I knew what I promised, and I know that its performance is possible.  Therefore I can not feel absolved!  I must accomplish my work; and you, Paul, if you love me, must help me to do it.”

“I would serve you with my life, Miriam, in anything reasonable and possible.  But how can I help you?  How can you discharge such an obligation?  You have not even a clue!”

“Yes, I have a clue, Paul.”

“You have?  What is it?  Why have you never spoken of it before?”

“Because of its seeming unimportance.  The clue is so slight, that it would be considered none at all, by others less interested than myself.”

“What is it, then?  At least allow me the privilege of knowing, and judging of its importance.”

“I am about to do so,” said Miriam, and she commenced and told him all she knew, and also all she suspected of the circumstances that preceded the assassination on the beach.  In conclusion, she informed him of the letters in her possession.