Wondering at his tone which was almost solemn, she quietly did his bidding. But when she essayed to lift her head upon the completion of her task, he gently laid his hand upon her brow and so stood for a moment without a word. “What is it?” she asked, with a sudden indrawing of her breath. “What moves you so, Mr. Sylvester?” “I have just taken a vow,” said he. She started back agitated and trembling. “I had reason to,” he murmured, “pray at nights when you go to bed, that I may be able to keep it.” “What?” sprang to her lips; but she restrained herself and only allowed her glance to speak. “Will you do it, Paula?” “Yes, oh yes!” Her whole heart seemed to rush out in the phrase. She drew back as at the opening of a door in an unexpected spot. Her eye had something of fear in it and something of secret desperation too. He watched her with a gaze that strangely faltered. “A woman’s prayers are a man’s best safeguard,” murmured he. “He must be a wretch who does not feel himself surrounded by a sacred halo, while he knows that pure lips are breathing his name in love and trust before the throne of the Most High.” “I will pray for you as for myself,” she whispered, and endeavored to meet his eyes. But her head drooped and she did not speak as she would have done a few months before; and when a few instants later they parted in their old fashion at the foot of the stairs, she did not turn to give him the accustomed smile and nod with which she used to mount the stairs, spiral by spiral, and disappear in her little room above. Yet he did not grieve at the change, but stood looking up the way she had gone, like a man before whom some vision of unexpected promise had opened. XXXI. A QUESTION. “Think on thy sins.”—OTHELLO. The next morning when Mr. Sylvester came down to breakfast, he found on the library-table an exquisite casket, similar to the one he had given Paula the night before, but larger, and filled with flowers of the most delicious odor. “For Miss Fairchild,” explained Samuel, who was at that moment passing through the room. With a pang of jealous surprise, that, however, failed to betray itself in his steadily composed countenance, Mr. Sylvester advanced to the side of the table, and lifted up the card that hung attached to the beautiful present. The name he read there seemed to startle him; he moved away, and took up his paper with a dark flush on his brow, that had not disappeared when Miss Belinda entered the room. “Humph!” was her immediate exclamation, as her eye rested upon the conspicuous offering in the centre of the apartment. But instantly remembering herself, advanced with a cheerful good-morning, which however did not prevent her eyes from wandering with no small satisfaction towards this fresh evidence of Mr. Ensign’s assiduous regard. “Paula is remembered by others than ourselves,” remarked Mr. Sylvester, probably observing her glance.