But no—Dr. Rosenthal was deep in the study of Gustave Doré. “Why do you wish to read my thoughts, Erminie?” repeated her lover. “Oh, I do not know. Sometimes when you have been here spending an evening alone with me, you have been so moody, so grave, so thoughtful, so absent-minded, so utterly oblivious of all around you; so utterly oblivious even of me,” replied Erminie, sadly. “Of you! Never, Erminie. Never, for an instant, better angel of my life!” exclaimed Eastworth, warmly, though still in a suppressed voice. Then he paused and reflected for a few moments, and then he said: “Sweet girl, I am no longer a young man, and middle age brings with it trials and responsibilities with which I do not wish to burden your gentle heart. No, Erminie, I am no longer a young man. I remember sometimes with pain, and with grave misgivings—ay, almost with despair—that I am your senior for full twenty years!” “Oh, why do you say that? I never knew and never asked myself whether you were thirty, or forty, or fifty! But I do know that I—I——” She broke down in the sweet confession she was trying to make, and dropped her head and hid her face upon his shoulder. He encircled her waist with his arm, and stooped to whisper something. Dr. Rosenthal glanced up over the tops of his spectacles, muttering to himself: “Humph! so that is the way in which they read my son’s letter;” and then he bent his head still lower over Gustave Doré, and became still more absorbed in study. “Then you do not love me the less because, like Othello, I am somewhat ‘declined into the vale of years’?” Eastworth asked. He spoke so low as scarcely to break the dead silence of the room—a silence which was so profound, that when the mantel clock began to strike it sounded like an alarm. “Eleven o’clock! Bless my soul! Erminie, ring for the bedroom candles!” exclaimed the doctor, rousing himself. Erminie obeyed. The housemaid appeared with three wax candles in three little silver candlesticks. “We have no gas in the bedrooms. I consider it unhealthy. Good-night,” said the doctor, as he lighted a candle and handed it to his guest. CHAPTER XVIII. ERMINIE’S TRIALS. On the morning succeeding the domestication of Colonel Eastworth in the family, Erminie, restless with excess of happiness, arose earlier than usual. She went down into the library to open and air it, and to have the fire lighted and the table set for breakfast under her own supervision. And half an hour later, when Dr. Rosenthal and Colonel Eastworth entered the room, a very pleasant scene greeted them. The morning sun was shining brightly in, lighting up the amber-colored hangings, the gilded picture frames, the glass bookcases, and the silver service of the breakfast table. The fire burned clearly in the polished grate, and by its side sat Erminie in her soft white merino morning dress and rich auburn ringlets.