At last she came down stairs; the doctor thought it possible, that one unvaried scene retarded her advancement, and, one day, Frederick was surprised by a vision of her pale loveliness, as she sat in her easy-chair, by a window of the room in which sister Anna died. Reverently and almost holding his breath, with intense feeling, young Farnham stole up to this window. "Isabel, my Isabel!" She started, with a faint shriek. "Are you afraid, Isabel? has the sight of me become a terror," he said, sadly. "No, no," answered the young girl, and her eyes filled; "I wanted to see you; it was for this I consented to come down stairs." "Bless you for that, darling." "I wanted to tell you how very, very sorry I am for having taken that wicked oath. It was against you, Frederick, but more against my own heart; I think that one sin will kill me in the end!" "Then you repent. You see how romantic and foolish it was, how like a puff of wind it ought to be on your conscience. We shall be happy yet, dear Isabel!" The poor girl shook her head. "It was foolish--cruel, but unchangeable, Frederick; I have fastened it here between your love and mine for ever and ever. I haughtily fancied myself an avenger. Behold, to what it has brought me!" Isabel lifted her thin hand, which was so pale you could almost see the light shining through it. "Yes, my poor Isabel, you have suffered, and this wild resolve has given me so much pain. Let us cease to remember it; get well--only get well! When your mind is strong you will look upon all this as I do." "Oh, how I wish it were possible! but even Mary considers a vow, such as I have taken, binding, so does aunt Hannah, so must every unprejudiced person." "They are all stupid--no, no, I did not mean that--but it's not the less nonsense. What can a nice little thing like Mary or that old maid, aunt Hannah, know of subtle questions in moral philosophy? I tell you, Isabel, a wicked promise, that can do no good, but infinite harm, ought not to be kept. Besides, that vow was not solemnly taken, it was an outbreak of enthusiasm, brought on by the gorgeous twilight of that old edifice--the music and atmosphere. It was a vow of the senses, not of the soul." Poor Isabel was so feeble, so completely incapable of reasoning justly, that she dared not listen to these ingenious arguments, for she was growing keenly conscientious, and feared that weakness might betray her into a fresh wrong. "Do not talk to me in this way just now," she said, gently. "Let me rest." Frederick gathered hope from her gentleness, and his voice trembled with affection, as he promised not to excite her again. "Only get well by my birth-day, Isabel," he said; "have the roses on your cheeks then, and all will end happily."