"To have been guilty--not to be guilty--you have suffered remorse--you have repented, these many long and wretched years. Oh! surely repentance washes out guilt!" "And you can now caress and weep over my hands, believing them to have been crimsoned with the life-stream of your first and best friend?" "Yes! yes! yes! yes! Oh! would these tears, my very heart sobs forth, might wash them pure again! Yes! yes! whether you be guilty or not, my brother! the more I listen to my heart, the more I love you, and I cannot help it!" "It is because your heart is so much wiser than your head, dear Miriam! Your heart divines the guiltlessness that your reason refuses to credit! Do what you feel that you must, dear Miriam--but, in the meantime, let us still be brother and sister--embrace me once more." With anguish bordering on insanity, she threw herself into his arms for a moment--was pressed to his heart, and then breaking away, she escaped from the room to her own chamber. And there, with her half-crazed brain and breaking heart--like one acting or forced to act in a ghastly dream, she began to arrange her evidence--collect the letters, the list of witnesses and all, preparatory to setting forth upon her fatal mission in the morning. With the earliest dawn of morning, Miriam left her room. In passing the door of Mr. Willcoxen's chamber, she suddenly stopped--a spasm seized her heart, and convulsed her features--she clasped her hands to pray, then, as if there were wild mockery in the thought, flung them fiercely apart, and hurried on her way. She felt that she was leaving the house never to return; she thought that she should depart without encountering any of its inmates. She was surprised, therefore, to meet Paul in the front passage. He came up and intercepted her: "Where are you going so early, Miriam?" "To Colonel Thornton's." "What? Before breakfast?" "Yes." He took both of her hands, and looked into her face--her pallid face--with all the color concentrated in a dark crimson spot upon either cheek--with all the life burning deep down in the contracted pupils of the eyes. "Miriam, you are not well--come, go into the parlor," he said, and attempted to draw her toward the door. "No, Paul, no! I must go out," she said, resisting his efforts. "But why?" "What is it to you? Let me go." "It is everything to me, Miriam, because I suspect your errand. Come into the parlor. This madness must not go on." "Well, perhaps I am mad, and my words and acts may go for nothing. I hope it may be so." "Miriam, I must talk with you--not here--for we are liable to be interrupted every instant. Come into the parlor, at least for a few moments."