"But," continued the girl, without heeding the interruption, and speaking in an earnest, thrilling tone, "by the Heaven that is above us both, Bernard, I here swear, that if you are ever cold or cruel to the new bride you are winning, as true as there's a heart in my bosom, I will be her avenger--mark my words; though I should have to follow you to the ends of the earth, that revenge shall be mine." A moment of silence ensued, and Minny stood like a breathing statue of retribution, with her glittering eyes fixed upon the face before her. "Ah, Minny, the chill breath of desertion and sorrow has extinguished the last spark of affection which once glowed in your breast for me, or you could never speak thus. But fear not; your young mistress shall be to me as the apple of my eye, even as the core of my heart." "Enough, enough. Good-night." "Stay, Minny; can you learn to think of me kindly; and, in coming days, to witness my affection for another unshrinkingly?" "I have already learned to do so." "And you will not let these gloomy visions of the past rise up between you and the far-off stars?" "Never again, never again." He pressed the trembling hand he held between his own, and touched it to his lips. It was drawn quickly from him; a stifled sob fell upon his ear, and he stood alone. Slowly he turned his steps homewards, and with every echo of his solitary footfall, with every sob of the passing night-wind, came back upon his troubled heart, with thrilling sadness, Minny's last mournful words, "Never again, never again!" Again he reached the store, and the lock, obedient to the ponderous key, turned noiselessly, and Wilkins entered. It was dark and gloomy, and a chill passed over him as he fastened the door, and groped his way along between the deserted counters. The scene through which he had just passed had called up bitter and unpleasant memories, and there came over him a sense of lonely desolation, such as he could not endure to experience. He stopped a moment as he reached the high desk, and stood there, silent and thoughtful. "I will go to him," he muttered; "there is something holy in his presence, which will make me happier." With cautious steps he mounted the winding stairs, and sought the room where Guly lay. The moment he approached the bedside, the boy started from his restless pillow. "Arthur, is it you?" "It is me, Guly," returned Wilkins, in a low voice. "You! and you come without him?" "I come alone, Guly." "And has anything happened--oh! do not keep it from me! Is Arthur hurt? What brings you here, Wilkins, if it is not that?" "I came here, Guly, with my own troubled heart, to look upon you as you slept, and to go away happier. I have no news, either good or bad, of poor Arthur." Guly was silent a moment, then taking Wilkins' hand, he said:-- "I cannot tell you how much I thank you for the long and dreary walk you have taken for my sake. Some day I hope to be able to repay your kindness."