"You know," she said, "in old times, when Alice was in full career, I never thought of anything serious as possible. It is only since our trouble and his great kindness to us that I have thought of the thing as at all likely." "We may as well leave it to the good powers," said I, "we can't do much to help or hinder, only, if they should come together I shall be glad for Jim's sake, for I love him. And now, my dear Eva, have you any more orders, counsels, or commands for the fateful to-morrow?" said I, "for it waxes late, and you ought to get a beauty-sleep to-night." "Oh, I forgot to tell you I'm not going to wear either my new traveling dress or hat, or anything to mark me out as a bride; and look here, Harry, you must try and study the old staid married man's demeanor. Don't let's disgrace ourselves by being discovered at once." "Shall I turn my back on you and read the newspaper? I observe that some married men do that." "Yes, and if you could conjugally wipe your boots on my dress, it would have an extremely old married effect. You can read the paper _first_, and then pass it to me--that is another delicate little point." "I'm afraid that in your zeal you will drive me to excesses of boorishness that will overshoot the mark" said I. "You wouldn't want me to be so negligent of 'that pretty girl,' that some other gentleman would feel a disposition to befriend her?" "Well, dear, but there's a happy medium. We can appear like two relatives traveling together." "I am afraid," said I "after all, we shall be detected; but if we are, we shall be in good company. Our first day's journey lies in the regular bridal route, and I expect that every third or fourth seat will show an enraptured pair, of whom we can take lessons--after all, dear, you know there is no sin in being just married." "No, only in acting silly about it as I hope we shan't. I want us to be models of rationality and decorum." Here the clock striking twelve warned me that the last day of Eva Van Arsdel's life was numbered. CHAPTER XLIII. BOLTON. I returned to my room past midnight, excited and wakeful. Seeing a light through the crack of Bolton's door, I went up and knocked and was bidden to enter. I found him seated under his study-lamp, looking over a portfolio of papers, some of which lay strewed around him open. I observed at a glance that the hand-writing was that of Caroline. He looked at me. Our eyes met--a slight flush rose in his cheeks as he said: "I have been looking over a collection of writings belonging to your cousin, the fruits of the solitary years of her secluded life." "And you find them--?"