She did not hear the words, but she saw the action. Slowly the blood left her cheek, and her hand fell upon her swelling breast with a despairing gesture that would have smitten Miss Belinda to the heart, could she have seen it. “I have asked too much,” she whispered. With a start Mr. Sylvester rose. “Paula,” said he, in a stern and different tone, “is this fear of which you speak, the offspring of your own instincts, or has it been engendered in your breast by the words of another?” “My Aunt Belinda is in my confidence, if it is she to whom you allude,” rejoined she, meeting his glance fully and bravely. “But from no lips but yours could any words proceed capable of affecting my estimate of you as the one best qualified to make me happy.” “Then it is my words alone that have awakened this doubt, this apprehension?” “I have not spoken of doubt,” said she, but her eyelids fell. “No, thank God!” he passionately exclaimed. “And yet you feel it,” he went on more composedly. “I have studied your face too long and closely not to understand it.” She put out her hands in appeal, but for once it passed unheeded. “Paula,” said he, “you must tell me just what that doubt is; I must know what is passing in your mind. You say you love me—” he paused, and a tremble shook him from head to foot, but he went inexorably on—“it is more than I had a right to expect, and God knows I am grateful for the precious and inestimable boon, far as it is above my deserts; but while loving me, you hesitate to give me your hand. Why? What is the name of the doubt that disturbs that pure breast and affects your choice? Tell me, I must know.” “You ask me to dissect my own heart!” she cried, quivering under the torture of his glance; “how can I? What do I know of its secret springs or the terrors that disturb its even beatings? I cannot name my fear; it has no name, or if it has—Oh, sir!” she cried in a burst of passionate longing, “your life has been one of sorrow and disappointment; grief has touched you close, and you might well be the melancholy and sombre man that all behold. I do not shrink from grief; say that the only shadow that lies across your dungeon-door is that cast by the great and heart-rending sorrows of your life, and without question and without fear I enter that dungeon with you—” The hand he raised stopped her. “Paula,” cried he, “do you believe in repentance?” The words struck her like a blow. Falling slowly back, she looked at him for an instant, then her head sank on her breast. “I know what your hatred of sin is,” continued he. “I have seen your whole form tremble at the thought of evil. Is your belief in the redeeming power of God as great as your recoil from the wrong that makes that redemption necessary?” Quickly her head raised, a light fell on her brow, and her lips moved in a vain effort to utter what her eyes unconsciously expressed.