"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. "Is he a magician?" asked Cornelius; "could he drop from the skies to work my ruin? But absurd as is the supposition that one so unknown could have such a foe, it is contradicted by a simple fact--the chair which I myself placed against the window is there still. Oh no, Miriam, my enemy came not from without; my enemy is one whom I brought home one evening in my arms, wrapped in my cloak; who has eaten my bread and often drunk from my cup; who has many a time fallen asleep on my heart; whom I have loved, cherished, and caressed for three years." This was more than my bursting heart could bear. I had stood apart, listening with bowed head and clasped hands, apathetic and resigned. I now came forward; I placed myself before him; I looked up at him; my tears fell like rain and blinded me, but through both sobs and tears broke forth the passionate cry, "Cornelius, Cornelius, I did not do it." And I sank on my knees before him; but to protest my innocence, not to implore pardon. "You hear her," he said to Miriam, and he looked down at me--moved indeed, but, alas! his face told it plainly--unconvinced. For awhile we remained thus. I could not take my eyes from his; words had failed, but I felt as if spirit should speak to spirit, heart to heart, and breaking the bonds of flesh, should bear the silent truth from my soul to his, and stamp it there in all its burning reality.