“Paula!”
They had reached home and were standing in the library.
“Yes,” said she, lowering her head before his gaze with a sweet and conscious blush.
“Did you read the letter I left for you in my desk up stairs?”
She put her hand to her bosom and drew forth the closely written sheet. “Every word,” she responded, and smilingly returned it to its place.
He started and his chest heaved passionately. “You have read it,” he cried, “and yet could follow me into that den of unknown dangers at an hour like this, and with no other guide than Bertram?”
“Yes,” she answered.
He drew a deep breath and his brow lost its deepest shadow. “You do not despise me then,” he exclaimed “My sin has not utterly blotted me out of your regard?”
The glance with which she replied seemed to fill the whole room with its radiance. “I am only beginning to realize the worth of the man who has hitherto been a mystery to me,” she declared. Then as he shook his head, added with a serious air, “The question with all true hearts must ever be, not what a man has been, but what he is. He who for the sake of shielding the innocent from shame and sorrow, would have taken upon himself the onus of a past disgrace, is not unworthy a woman’s devotion.”
Mr. Sylvester smiled mournfully, and stroked her hand which he had taken in his. “Poor little one,” he murmured. “I know not whether to feel proud or sorry for your trust and tender devotion. It would have been a great and unspeakable grief to me to have lost your regard, but it might have been better if I had; it might have been much better for you if I had!”