“Now, dear Emily,” resumed Muriel, “let me come at once to the only sad thing in all this—in a word, to the reason which compels me to speak thus frankly to you for the sake of our friendship, which I cannot bear to see disturbed even for an hour. You know I have known John for a long time, and that he is my best, my most cherished friend. I cannot tell you how much he has been and is to me—with how many noble hours he is associated. Since I have thought you loved him, I have been conscious—painfully conscious—that your manner has not been what it once was to me—that you have felt our communion—his and mine—as something that interfered with your relation to him.” Muriel paused, earnestly gazing in the face of her friend, to be certain that she was not offending her. The hot color suffused Emily’s face, but she was calm and even smiled. Yes, I am jealous of her, was her thought, but it is because she loves Wentworth and he her. And she thinks I love Harrington! Then came the impulse to undeceive Muriel in this regard. Pride arose on one side, taunting her to confess that she had paid court to a man she did not love. Shame arose on the other side, urging her to conceal the thoughtless folly of having lured that man to love her. Both together held the impulse down. “Dear Emily,” pursued Muriel, in tender and pleading tones, “do not let this be so. Do not think of me as your rival because I am your lover’s friend. There cannot be in our relation—his and mine—anything to weaken his faith to you. Oh, believe that, and let there be no discord between you and me! There, I have said all. I might have waited till he or you told me that you were lovers. But I could not bear to see you tortured with the feeling that there was rivalry between us, or to see our friendship in any way impaired. Forgive me for my haste—for my brusque plain-speaking; and love me truly as I love you.” Leaning over to her, as she ended, Muriel, the bright tears welling from her eyes, embraced her tenderly. Emily, smiling wanly, her brain whirling with affection, with self-scorn and passionate despair, clasped the loving form to her breast, and held it there. In a few moments Muriel disengaged herself, her happy and noble face radiant, but wet with tears, smiled at Emily, and smiling, rose and glided from the room. CHAPTER V. LA BOSTONIENNE. Emily covered her face with her hands, and for more than fifteen minutes sat in silent stupor where Muriel had left her. At length she sprang up, throwing her clenched hands from her in agony, and walked the library. Her eyes were hotly lustrous, her damask cheeks vivid with heightened color, her parted lips wore an unnatural bloom, and the flush of fever deepened the sunny gold of her complexion. Slowly, with measured steps, to and fro, up and down, she paced the room, with rustling robes, like a doomed Sultana.