He was about to ring and ask for Mrs. Eastman; then reflecting that she might be in the parlor, he chose rather to go down to her on his way out from the house, but stepping on tiptoe to the door for this purpose, he saw Muriel clad in a white wrapper, just ascending to her chamber, and beckoned to her. She came instantly, all lily-fair from her bath, with her bright hair rippling back from a face serious with inquiry, and gazed with some astonishment on the reposing form of Emily. Briefly explaining to her in a whisper the nature of the sleep in which Emily lay, and advising that she should be covered, and left there to slumber undisturbed, Harrington softly quitted the room, promising to return as soon as he could, and tell Muriel more. “But John,” murmured Muriel, in the corridor, “do give me a little information about this before you go. You say she fell asleep leaning on your breast, and that nature was overcome with suffering. What was her trouble? Surely what Wentworth said to her could not have affected her so terribly.” “Muriel,” said Harrington, gently, after a pause, “this is a secret, but it is one, I think, you ought to know. Briefly, then—Emily imagined that she had won my heart from me, and was stricken with generous grief to think that she had no love but a sister’s to give me in return. It was easy to rectify her painful error, and I have done so.” Muriel stood gazing at him, as if she had turned to stone. “Good-bye,” said Harrington, after an awkward pause. She slowly bent her head in reply, and stood motionless, with her lips parted in wonder, as he went down-stairs and out at the front door. “Yes,” he murmured, as he strode off down the street, “and she loves Wentworth. That is her heartbreak—that is why she paid her desperate and reckless court to me. Oh, Muriel, I would not have you know it for the world!” CHAPTER XXI. THE BREAKING OF THE SPELL. Recalled to herself by the shutting of the street door, Muriel started from her trance, and flew upstairs into her chamber. Falling on her knees by her bedside, she covered her eyes with her hands, and buried her face in the coverlet, floods of dazzling light pouring upon her brain. “I see it all!” she cried, springing to her feet, and throwing up her hands, her face radiant, and a smile breaking upon it like March splendors from the wild clouds; “I see it all now! Wentworth and she are lovers. Oh, let me not die with joy!” Her luminous face upturned, her arms upthrown, she flew across the room, stopped suddenly, and covering her eyes with her hands, stood still, light, perfume, and victory rushing upon her soul and mantling through her veins.