“And yet I don’t know! I don’t know! Why do you look at me so? Why do you look at me so—growing beautiful and more beautiful every instant—growing bright and brighter until you seem, not a man, but a star, a sun flashing into my very _brain_, bewildering, making me dizzy! striking me blind with light! Ah! I am delirious again! Save me, Sophie! save me, mother!” and with a sharp cry, half laugh, half shriek, she fell into his arms. He stooped his head and whispered, “You are mine, _mine_, MINE! Rosalia, I have manœuvred, intrigued, and waited for this hour. I have brought a high heart to the earth, trodden a proud heart to the dust, crushed a strong heart to death in pursuit of this hour. You are mine, MINE, girl! I have bought you with a price, a high price! I have given up country, home, wife, and children; resigned integrity, pride, and ambition, and risked fair fame. Ah, God! I pay dearly for you, Rosalia!” * * * * * Three weeks from this day Rosalia sat alone in a private parlor in one of the principal hotels in Washington. It was mid-winter, yet the room was warm, and she reclined in a snowy white muslin robe upon a crimson sofa that was drawn up in front of the glowing coal fire; her head rested on her arm upon the end of the lounge. She was changed even in these three weeks. The round, elastic rosy cheeks, whose bloom was shaded faintly and fairly off towards the transparent and azure veined temples, and the snowy chin and brow were changed, all were changed—the beautiful faint rose glow that had overspread her lovely baby-face, had now withdrawn and collected itself in one burning fever spot in either cheek, leaving her brow and temples pallid; and the liquid and floating light of her soft blue eyes, had now concentrated in one intense fiery spark in the centre of either pupil. Her attitude was still as death, yet an air of suppressed excitement was visible in every feature. The door opened, and she started up into a sitting position, as Raymond Withers entered; _he_ had changed _back again_, having regained all his old accustomed ease and eloquence; he wheeled a large easy chair to the fire and sank down among its cushions. “Rosalia, we leave Washington in the Norfolk boat at six o’clock to-morrow morning.” “Have you heard from Hagar?” asked she, faintly. “No, not a word—she is sulking, never mind her, Rose,” replied he, an expression of pain traversing his countenance, nevertheless. “_Why_ recall her?” “I do not—she is ever, ever, _ever_ before me! her pale face! oh! pale like that of a victim strained upon the rack! I believe Hagar is dead and haunts me! Oh, let me go away, Raymond! let me leave you!” and her face suddenly grew sharp and white in anguish. He looked at her uneasily. “Rose!” She raised her eyes to his beautiful and resplendent countenance, and her own softened. He went and sat down by her side, and caressing her gently, said,