“Where are you going so early, Miriam?”

“To Colonel Thornton’s.”

“What?  Before breakfast?”

“Yes.”

He took both of her hands, and looked into her face—­her pallid face—­with all the color concentrated in a dark crimson spot upon either cheek—­with all the life burning deep down in the contracted pupils of the eyes.

“Miriam, you are not well—­come, go into the parlor,” he said, and attempted to draw her toward the door.

“No, Paul, no!  I must go out,” she said, resisting his efforts.

“But why?”

“What is it to you?  Let me go.”

“It is everything to me, Miriam, because I suspect your errand.  Come into the parlor.  This madness must not go on.”

“Well, perhaps I am mad, and my words and acts may go for nothing.  I hope it may be so.”

“Miriam, I must talk with you—­not here—­for we are liable to be interrupted every instant.  Come into the parlor, at least for a few moments.”

She no longer resisted that slight plea, but suffered him to lead her in.  He gave her a seat, and took one beside her, and took her hand in his, and began to urge her to give up her fatal purpose.  He appealed to her, through reason, through religion, through all the strongest passions and affections of her soul—­through her devotion to her guardian—­through the gratitude she owed him—­through their mutual love, that must be sacrificed, if her insane purpose should be carried out.  To all this she answered: 

“I think of nothing concerning myself, Paul—­I think only of him; there is the anguish.”

“You are insane, Miriam; yet, crazy as you are, you may do a great deal of harm—­much to Thurston, but much more to yourself.  It is not probable that the evidence you think you have will be considered by any magistrate of sufficient importance to be acted upon against a man of Mr. Willcoxen’s life and character.”

“Heaven grant that such may be the case.”

“Attend! collect your thoughts—­the evidence you produce will probably be considered unimportant and quite unworthy of attention; but what will be thought of you who volunteer to offer it?”

“I had not reflected upon that—­and now you mention it, I do not care.”

“And if, on the other hand, the testimony which you have to offer be considered ground for indictment, and Thurston is brought to trial, and acquitted, as he surely would be—­”

“Ay!  Heaven send it!”

“And the whole affair blown all over the country—­how would you appear?”

“I know not, and care not, so he is cleared; Heaven grant I may be the only sufferer!  I am willing to take the infamy.”

“You would be held up before the world as an ingrate, a domestic traitress, and unnatural monster.  You would be hated of all—­your name and history become a tradition of almost impossible wickedness.”

“Ha! why, do you think that in such an hour as this I care for myself?  No, no! no, no!  Heaven grant that it may be as you say—­that my brother be acquitted, and I only may suffer!  I am willing to suffer shame and death for him whom I denounce!  Let me go, Paul; I have lost too much time here.”