“Miriam,” he said, “I too have been an extensive loser through the failure of the Bank of Pennsylvania.  Like yourself, with the exception of the house I now reside in, and some few small tenements I hold for rent, I find every thing swept away from me.  Claude, it is true, is comfortable, and on his slender estate we must both now manage to support ourselves.  You see marriage on his part is now simply out of the question.  He has his father to take care of.”

He said this last in so significant a tone, and apologetic a manner, that its intent was unmistakable, little dreaming how transparent my conviction of his crime had made his motives.

“As far as I am concerned, it was so eighteen months ago,” I responded, and the blood rushed indignantly to my brow.  “Yet I hope,” I added, after a moment’s hesitation, “that Claude may still marry and be happy.”

“You are still vexed with that boy of mine, Miriam, I see that.  Oh, you are wrong, there!  It was not for him, unfledged and inexperienced, to weigh the precious diamond against the paste pretense!  He could not see you with the eyes of riper judgment and deep feeling accorded to those who have studied life, and learned its loftiest lessons.  Had he looked through my eyes, Miriam—­” (he was standing before me now, his arms extended, his eyes blazing, his cheeks and lips strangely aglow), “he would have seen you as you are, the rose, the ruby of the world.”  He seized my hand impetuously, and pressed it to his lips, then rushed wildly away.  A moment later, he returned, silently.  I was standing before the silver cistern, I remember, washing away with my handkerchief an invisible stain from my hand, child-fashion, a loathsome impress, when I felt his audacious arms thrown suddenly around me, and his hot, polluting kisses on my face.

“I love—­I love you!” he hissed in my ear, “and sooner or later I will possess you!”

Before I could strike him, spit upon him, strangle him with my hands—­the thief, the midnight robber, the slave of lust—­he was gone again.  I heard my own wild shrieks resounding through the house, like those of some strange lunatic.  I was for a time frantic with rage and shame.  But no one came to my succor, except poor old Morton.  He crept feebly from the pantry, and found me sobbing in my father’s chair.  As he stood meekly before me, leaning on his staff, and looking in my face, my only friend, so powerless to aid, the whole desolateness of my position burst upon me, like an overpowering avalanche, I bowed my head and wept.

“Bear up, bear up, my lamb,” he said, in his weak, tremulous voice; “we have the promise of the Lord to rely on.  Has he not said the seed of the just man should never know want or beg bread?  We must believe in the Gospel, and be strengthened, Miss Miriam.”

And he laid his quivering hand lightly on my head.  I took it between both of my own, and kissed it fervently, bathing it with my tears.  “Morton,” I said, “dear old Morton, I have had such a terrible blow to bear—­shame!” and again I was choked with sobs.