"One word," questioned aunt Hannah; "do you love that young man?"
"Love him, oh, yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!" cried the poor girl, and the sparkle of her eyes was painful to look upon "I think it must kill me to see him no more. I am sure it must!"
"And you are sure he loves you?"
"Sure?" she cried, flinging out her clasped hands, "sure, yes, as I am of my own life!"
"And you believe him to be a good man?"
"I know it, have we not grown up together? He is passionate, proud, impulsive—but noble. I tell you his faults would be virtues in other men."
As aunt Hannah listened, there came a glow upon her sallow cheeks, and a soft smile to her lips, as if something in Isabel's wild enthusiasm had given her pleasure.
"She shall stay with us! Surely with all our debts paid, we can find room for the child!"
"Room—room for the pauper—room!"
Isabel had caught the word, and sent it back again with wild glee, half singing half shouting it through her burning lips. The fever was beginning to rage through her veins.