"Forgive her," gently said Miriam.
"Forgive her! she rejects forgiveness. Proud and obstinate in her guilt, she denies it; and I, who, when I called her up here this morning, incensed against her as I was, could yet, I thought, have staked my honour on her truth—I knew she was jealous, resentful and passionate, but not even in thought would I have accused her of a lie."
"Then you did not take her in the act?" thoughtfully asked Miriam.
"No, this was evidently done last night."
"How do you know it was she did it?"
"There was no one else to do it."
"What proof is that? She is not bound to prove her innocence. It is you who are bound to prove her guilt. There is a doubt—give her the benefit of it."
"A doubt!" he exclaimed almost indignantly,—"a doubt! why, if I could feel a doubt, Miriam, I would not in word, deed, look, or thought, so much as hint an accusation against her. A doubt! would to God I could doubt! But it is impossible: everything condemns her." He briefly recapitulated the proofs he had already brought forward against me.
"After this," he added, "what am I to think?"
"That you have some secret enemy," calmly replied Miriam.