“Miriam! now what in the world do you mean by this?  Why do you yield so?  I would not do it.  I know it is bad to be disappointed of an expected inheritance, and to find out that some one else has a greater claim, but, indeed, I would not take it to heart so, if I were you.  Why, if he is married, he may not have a family, and even if he has, he may not utterly disinherit you, and even if he should, I would not grieve myself to death about it if I were you!  Miriam, look up, I say!”

But the hapless girl replied not, heard not, heeded not; deaf, blind, insensible was she to all—­everything but to that sharp, mental grief, that seemed so like physical pain; that fierce anguish of the breast, that, like an iron band, seemed to clutch and close upon her heart, tighter, tighter, tighter, until it stopped the current of her blood, and arrested her breath, and threw her into convulsions.

Alice sprang to raise her, then ran down-stairs to procure restoratives and assistance.  In the front hall she met Dr. Douglass, who had just been admitted by the waiter.  To his pleasant greeting, she replied hastily, breathlessly: 

“Oh, Paul! come—­come quickly up stairs!  Miriam has fallen into convulsions, and I am frightened out of my senses!”

“What caused her illness?” asked Paul, in alarm and anxiety, as he ran up stairs, preceded by Alice.

“Oh, I don’t know!” answered Alice, but thought to herself:  “It could not have been what I said to her, and if it was, I must not tell.”

The details of sickness are never interesting.  I shall not dwell upon Miriam’s illness of several weeks; the doctors pronounced it to be angina pectoris—­a fearful and often fatal complaint, brought on in those constitutionally predisposed to it, by any sudden shock to mind or body.  What could have caused its attack upon Miriam, they could not imagine.  And Alice Murray, in fear and doubt, held her tongue and kept her own counsel.  In all her illness, Miriam’s reason was not for a moment clouded—­it seemed preternaturally awake; but she spoke not, and it was observed that if Mr. Willcoxen, who was overwhelmed with distress by her dreadful illness, approached her bedside and touched her person, she instantly fell into spasms.  In grief and dismay, Thurston’s eyes asked of all around an explanation of this strange and painful phenomenon; but none could tell him, except the doctor, who pronounced it the natural effect of the excessive nervous irritability attending her disease, and urged Mr. Willcoxen to keep away from her chamber.  And Thurston sadly complied.

Youth, and an elastic constitution, prevailed over disease, and Miriam was raised from the bed of death; but so changed in person and in manner, that you would scarcely have recognized her.  She was thinner, but not paler—­an intense consuming fire burned in and out upon her cheek, and smouldered and flashed from her eye.  Self-concentrated and reserved, she replied not at all, or only in monosyllables, to the words addressed to her, and withdrew more into herself.