“How like my Marian?” would often be the language of his heart, when hearing of her deeds.  “Even so would my Marian have done—­had she been born to fortune, as this lady was.”

The name was certainly common enough, yet the similarity of both names and natures inclined him to the opinion that this angel-woman must be some distant and more fortunate relative of his own lost Marian.  He felt drawn toward the unknown lady by a strong and almost irresistible attraction; and he secretly resolved to see and know her, and pondered in his heart ways and means by which he might, with propriety, seek her acquaintance.

While thus he lived two lives—­the outer life of work and usefulness, and the inner life of thought and suffering—­the young people of his party, hoping and believing him to be enjoying the honors heaped upon him, yielded themselves up to the attractions of society.

Miriam spent much of her time with her friend, Alice Murray.

One morning, when she called on Alice, the latter invited her visitor up into her own chamber, and seating her there, said, with a mysterious air: 

“Do you know, Miriam, that I have something—­the strangest thing that ever was—­that I have been wanting to tell you for three or four days, only I never got an opportunity to do so, because Olly or some one was always present?  But now Olly has gone to court, and mother has gone to market, and you and I can have a cozy chat to ourselves.”

She stopped to stir the fire, and Miriam quietly waited for her to proceed.

“Now, why in the world don’t you ask me for my secret?  I declare you take so little interest, and show so little curiosity, that it is not a bit of fun to hint a mystery to you.  Do you want to hear, or don’t you?  I assure you it is a tremendous revelation, and it concerns you, too!”

“What is it, then?  I am anxious to hear?”

“Oh! you do begin to show a little interest; and now, to punish you, I have a great mind not to tell you; however, I will take pity upon your suspense; but first, you must promise never, never, n-e-v-e-r to mention it again—­will you promise?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, listen.  Stop! get a good place to faint first, and then listen.  Are you ready?  One, two, three, fire.  The Rev. Thurston Willcoxen is a married man!”

“What!”

“Mr. Thurston Willcoxen has been married for eight years past.”

“Pshaw!”

“Mr. Willcoxen was married eight years ago this spring at a little
Methodist chapel near the navy yard of this city, and by an old
Methodist preacher, of the name of John Berry.”

“You are certainly mad!”

“I am not mad, most noble ‘doubter,’ but speak the words of truth and soberness.  Mr. Willcoxen was married privately, when and where I said, to a beautiful, fair-haired lady, whose name heard in the ritual was Marian.  And my husband, Olly Murray, was the secret witness of that private marriage.”