He felt deeply for him, and it was a very trying moment for even the noblest nature. “Yes, yes!” Paul Tressalia said, and then bowed his head upon his breast and sat apparently lost in thought for many minutes. The Hon. Archibald Faxon regarded them in astonishment. He had not supposed that either knew anything personally of the other until this moment, and never dreamed of the romance so closely woven into their lives. “Mr. Wayne,” Paul Tressalia said at last, lifting his face, which seemed to have grown suddenly old, and turning it full upon Earle, “will you allow me a few hours in which to think this matter over alone before we talk further upon it?” He was nearly unmanned and crushed beneath this avalanche of stern facts and bitter trouble which had come so suddenly upon him, and he must be alone for awhile, or he knew he should break down utterly. “Certainly, as long as you like,” Earle said, with hearty kindness, adding: “I have no desire to inconvenience you in any way. Take a week, a month, or even longer, if you wish, and I will meet you again at any place and time you see fit to designate.” “Thank you; you are very kind; and if you have no other engagement for to-day, I will give you my decision this afternoon. Meantime, the horses and carriages in the stables are at your service. You can go over the estate, or occupy yourselves in any way agreeable to you,” Paul Tressalia replied, with grave courtesy. He arose, gathered up the papers the lawyer had brought, then, with a bow to both gentlemen, withdrew from the room and sought his private apartments. Once there, and all doors securely locked, his firmness deserted him utterly. “_Can_ I bear it?” he groaned, sinking into a chair and dropping his head upon the table. “Can I _ever_ bear it, that she should be his wife? I must, for she loves him, and though to lose her rends my soul, yet _I_ love _her_ so well that to see her happy I would not shrink from any suffering however great. But can I bear to lose all _this_, and have him here at Wycliffe, where _I_ had hoped to bring her as its mistress and _my_ wife? I _cannot_ bear it!” he cried aloud, beating the air wildly with his hands, his face convulsed with pain. “I was proud of my inheritance,” he went on; “I was proud of my name and position, and hoped to rule wisely and well over the trust committed to my care. _Can I give it up?_ I had hoped to make the proud name I bear even more honorable and revered; I had hoped to make it, wherever it was uttered, the synonym for virtue, truth, and probity. Must I surrender all these aspirations, and calmly lay down every ambitious desire. _If_ I yield, _he_ will marry _her_ at once, and bring her here. She will indeed be mistress of Wycliffe; but, oh! how differently from what I wished! I _cannot_ bear it!” He sprang to his feet and paced back and forth, fighting his agony and rebellious heart as only men of his character can fight and suffer.