"Ring for breakfast, Paul! Our little housekeeper will feel better when she gets a cup of coffee."
But Miriam sprang up to anticipate him, and drew her chair to the table, and nervously began to arrange the cups and put sugar and cream into them, with the vague feeling that she must act as usual to avoid calling observation upon herself, for if questioned, how could she answer inquiries, and whom could she make a confidant in her terrible suspicions?
And so through the breakfast scene, and so through the whole day she sought to exercise self-control. But could her distress escape the anxious, penetrating eyes of affection? That evening after tea, when Mr. Willcoxen had retired to his own apartments and the waiter had replenished the fire and trimmed the lamps and retired, leaving the young couple alone in the parlor—Miriam sitting on one side of the circular work-table bending over her sewing, and Paul on the other side with a book in his hand, he suddenly laid the volume down, and went round and drew a chair to Miriam's side and began to tell her how much he loved her, how dear her happiness was to him, and so entreat her to tell him the cause of her evident distress. As he spoke, she became paler than death, and suddenly and passionately exclaimed:
"Oh, Paul! Paul! do not question me! You know not what you ask."
"My own Miriam, what mean you? I ought to know."
"Oh, Paul! Paul! I am one foredoomed to bring misery and destruction upon all who love me; upon all whom I love."
"My own dearest, you are ill, and need change, and you shall have it, Miriam," he said, attempting to soothe her with that gentle, tender, loving manner he ever used toward her.
But shuddering sighs convulsed her bosom, and—
"Oh, Paul! Paul!" was all she said.
"Is it that promise that weighs upon your mind, Miriam? Cast it out; you cannot fulfill it; impossibilities are not duties."