Smith would have urged his objections further, but they were interrupted. The room in which they sat was a parlor to which others might claim admission. Just then the door opened, and a young gentleman entered with the easy and confidential air of an old acquaintance. He cast a glance at Zulima, seemed surprised by the terrible agitation so visible in her face, and then fixed his penetrating eyes searchingly upon Smith. “You do not seem well,” he said, approaching Zulima, and Smith could detect that in his voice which ought to have startled Zulima long before. “Has any thing gone amiss?” and he cast a stern look on Smith. “I am not well!” said Zulima, and tears came into her eyes. “But you seem worse than ill—you look troubled.” Zulima lifted her eyes up with a painful smile, but made no answer. The young man looked distressed; he stood a moment before Zulima, and then walking toward a window, began to drum on the panes with his fingers, now and then casting furtive glances toward the sofa where Zulima and Smith were sitting. Smith arose to go. A new gleam of light had broken upon him—he saw and understood more than that fated young creature had even guessed at. “Then you are determined to undertake this journey?” he said, in a low voice. “Yes!” “When will you set out?” “To-morrow!” “Alone?” Zulima unconsciously glanced toward the young man; he had been very kind to her, and it seemed hard to start off utterly alone. “I don’t know,” she faltered; “yes, I shall take the journey alone.” “Your health seems delicate, you are so young,” urged Smith, reading her thoughts and hoping that she would be guided by the first imprudent impulse. “I am young—I am not well—but I shall go alone,” she answered, with gentle firmness. The young man at the window seemed restless. He walked toward a table, and taking up two or three books, cast them back again with an air of impatience. Smith observed this, and smiled quietly within himself, as he went out. Zulima saw nothing: she only knew that she was very, very wretched, and casting her arms over the back of the sofa, buried her face upon them and groaned in bitter anguish. Zulima was so lost in the agony of her feelings, that she did not know when the young man placed himself by her side. She was quite unconscious of his approach till her hand was in his, and his voice uttered her name in tones that made her nerves thrill from head to foot. Tenderness had given to that voice an intonation startlingly like the low tones of Daniel Clark when love most softened his proud nature. She started and looked wildly at the young man, her hand trembling in his—her lips parted in a half smile—the delusion had not quite left her. “Zulima, what is it that troubles you? Oh, if you only knew, if you could but guess, how—how it wrings my heart to see you thus! What has the man been saying to wound you?”