“You are the one who wrote the poem,” she murmured; “I remember.” Then with a sudden feverish impulse, leaned forward, and stroking back the waving locks from Paula’s brow, exclaimed hurriedly, “You look like her, you have the same dark hair and wonderful eyes, more beautiful perhaps, but like her, O so like her! That is why I made such a mistake.” She shuddered, with a quick low sob, but instantly subdued her emotion and taking Paula’s hand in hers continued, “You are young, my daughter; youth does not enjoy carrying burdens; can I, a stranger ask you to assist me with mine?” “You may,” returned Paula. “If it will give you any relief I will help you bear it willingly.” “You will! Has heaven then sent me the aid my failing spirits demand? Can I count on you, child? But I will ask for no promise till you have heard my story. To no one have I ever imparted the secret of my life, but from the first moment I saw your fair young face, I felt that through you would come my help, if help ever came to make my final moments easier and my last days less bitter.” And rising up, she led Paula to a door which she solemnly opened. “I am glad that you are here,” said she. “I could never have asked you to come, but since you have braved the dead and crossed this threshold, you must see and know the whole. You will understand my story better.” Taking her through a dark passage, she threw wide another door, and the parlors of the vanished Japhas opened before them. It was a ghostly vision. A weird twilight scene of clustered shadows brooding above articles of musty grandeur. In spite of the self-command learned by her late experiences, Paula recoiled, saying, “It is too sad, too lonesome!” But the woman without heeding her, hurried her on over the worm-eaten carpet and between the time-worn chairs and heavy-browed cabinets, to the hall beyond. “I have not been here, myself, for a year,” said Mrs. Hamlin, glancing fearfully up and down the dusky corridor. “It is not often I can brave the memories of this spot.” And she pointed with one hand towards the darkened door at its end, whose spacious if not stately panels gave no hint to the eye of the dread bar that crossed it like a line of doom upon the outside, and then turning, let her eye fall with still heavier significance upon the broad and imposing staircase that rose from the centre of the hall to the duskier and more dismal regions above. “A brave, old fashioned flight of steps is it not! But the scene of a curse, my child.” And unheeding Paula’s shudder, she drew her up the stairs.