He had never looked more worthy of a woman’s regard than he did that night. A matter that had been troubling him for some time had just been satisfactorily disposed of, and not a shadow, so far as he knew, lay upon his business outlook. This naturally brightened his cheek and lent a light to his eye. Then, hope is no mean beautifier, and this he possessed notwithstanding the disparity of years between himself and Paula. It was not, however, of sufficiently assured a nature to prevent him from starting at every sound from above, and flushing with quite a disagreeable sense of betrayal when the door opened and Bertram entered the room, instead of the gentle and exquisite being he had expected. “Uncle, I am so full of happiness, I had to stop and bestow a portion of it upon you. Do you think any one could mistake the nature of Miss Stuyvesant’s feelings, who saw her last night?” “Hardly,” was the smiling reply. “At all events I have not felt like wasting much but pleasant sympathy upon you. Your pathway to happiness looks secure, my boy.” His nephew gave him a wistful glance, but hid his thought whatever it was. “I am going to see her to-night,” remarked he. “I am afraid my love is something like a torrent that has once burst its barrier; it cannot rest until it has worked its channel and won its rightful repose.” “That is something the way with all love,” returned his uncle. “It may be dallied with while asleep, but once aroused, better meet a lion in his fury or a tempest in its rush. Are you going to test your hope, to-night?” The young man flushed. “I cannot say.” But in another moment gayly added, “I only know that I am prepared for any emergency.” “Well, my boy, I wish you God-speed. If ever a man has won a right to happiness, you are that man; and you shall enjoy it too, if any word or action of mine can serve to advance it.” “Thank you!” replied Bertram, and with a bright look around the apartment, prepared to take his leave. “When I come back,” he remarked, with a touch of that manly _naïveté_ to which I have before alluded, “I hope I shall not find you alone.” Ignoring this wish which was re-echoed somewhat too deeply within his own breast for light expression, Mr. Sylvester accompanied his nephew to the front door. “Let us see what kind of a night it is,” observed he, stepping out upon the stoop. “It is going to rain.” “So it is,” returned Bertram, with a quick glance overhead; “but I shall not let such a little fuss as that deter me from fulfilling my engagement.” And bestowing a hasty nod upon his uncle, he bounded down the step. Instantly a man who was loitering along the walk in front of the house, stopped, as if struck by these simple words, turned, gave Bertram a quick look, and then with a sly glance back at the open door where Mr. Sylvester still stood gazing at the lowering heavens, set himself cautiously to follow him.