“She has betrayed me!” was my involuntary reflection; “he was on his guard for my question or accusation; unconscious of my daily examination, he has borne away my gold, and it is lost to me forever!” And I clasped my hands more closely.

All that I have stated in the last two paragraphs, of my observation and reflections, passed through my mind like a flash—­so that there seemed scarce a momentary interruption between his last remarks and those which followed—­although so much had been recognized in the interval.

“It is unfortunate—­” I said, merely eying him calmly.

For the first time during our interview, his eyes quivered—­drooped—­fell before mine; but, recovering instantly, he gave me a clear, cool stare in return for the quiet look of scorn he encountered.  I saw at once the hopeless nature of the case.

“You will show me your accounts, Mr. Bainrothe,” I observed, haughtily; “I require this at least!”

“When you have attained your majority, certainly, Miriam, not before.  At present, I have only Evelyn Erle to satisfy on that score, and the law; I refer you to your guardian.”

“Or whomsoever I choose to substitute as my guardian,” I said; “I believe that privilege vests in me, being over eighteen.”

“There are outside provisions in your father’s will that debar you, unfortunately, from that usual privilege of minors of your age,” he rejoined, quietly.  “I regret this for many reasons:  I should be glad to quiet any doubts you may entertain at once, but it is impossible that, compatibly with self-respect, I can do this, after what you have insinuated this morning; so you must wait, with what patience you can command, for the coming of your majority.”

“Nearly two years to wait!” I cried; “I should die before then, if only of impatience.  No, I will know at once.  I will write to Mr. Gerald Stanbury—­I will go to the president of the bank—­nay, to Mr. Biddle himself.  I will resolve this matter.”

“You will do no such thing, my very dear young friend,” said Mr. Bainrothe, advancing and laying his hand lightly on my arm—­I shook it off, as if it had been a cold, crawling serpent.  He retreated quietly but quickly.  “You will do no such thing, Miriam,” he repeated, resuming his post by the mantel-shelf, without evincing the least discomposure at my behavior to him; “your own good sense, your own good feeling will come to your assistance when you look this matter fully in the face, and dispassionately, which I must say you are not doing now.  I have not earned at your hands mistrust and obloquy like this, Miriam; but, for the sake of the past, I shall strive and bear with the present.  Who has inspired you with such opinions of me?”

Accomplished hypocrite!  He tried to assume a much-injured air, to mingle forbearance with his reproachful words; but my heart was as hard toward him as a nether millstone, and his words made no impression on my flinty feelings, not even enough to strike fire therefrom, or sparks.