“George, you are dreaming,” I said; “your vivid fancy misleads you utterly.  I am not beautiful—­you cannot think so; no one has ever thought me so; you must not say such an absurd thing of me.  It only humiliates me.  But I do believe I still deserve your esteem.  Let us separate now, and to-morrow come to me in a better mood.”

“If I must give you up,” he murmured, in a low, grieved voice, “let it be to a husband who loves and appreciates you—­is worthy of you.  I cannot tell you all I know—­have heard; but of this I am certain:  Claude Bainrothe loves you not!  It is Evelyn he worships, and you are blind not to see it; Evelyn who has goaded him almost to madness already for her own purposes.  I heard—­but no, I cannot tell you this; I ought not—­honor forbids;” and he laid his hand on his boyish breast, in a tragic, lofty manner, all his own, that almost made me smile.

“I know, I know all this, dear George,” I said.  “Claude Bainrothe addressed Evelyn before he knew me, and she refused him.  Nor have I craved the honor, this is all that can be said as yet, of being her successor.”  I faltered here.  “Let this satisfy you for the present.  He has not spoken to me.”

“But you love him—­love him, Miriam!” he groaned.  “Oh, I saw it plainly to-night, and, what is far more terrible and hard to bear, he saw it too!  He was watching you from the corner of his furtive, downcast eye when he was speaking of going to Copenhagen, and a smile trembled around his mouth when you turned so pale—­white as a poplar-leaf, Miriam, when the wind blows it over!  If I were a woman I would cut out my heart rather than open it thus to the gaze of any man, far less one like that, shallow, selfish, superficial.  O Miriam! not worthy of you at all—­not fit to tie your shoe-latchet!”

“George, you overrate me, you always did, and—­and—­you undervalue Mr. Bainrothe, believe me; nay, I am sure you do.  Let us part now, George.  My father is calling me, you hear.  Go home, my own dear boy, and rest and pray.  Oh, be convinced that I love you better than all the world, except those I ought to love more.—­Yes, yes, papa!  I am coming.—­Good-night, dear George.”

And I kissed his clammy brow, hastening in the next moment to my father’s side, who, missing me, could not rest in this new phase of his until I was forthcoming.  Certainly, whatever tenderness I had missed in former years was amply lavished on me now.  Evelyn, Mabel—­all former idols sank out of sight in my presence, and the very touch of my hand, the sound of my voice, seemed to inspire him with happiness and a new sense of security.  Sometime I flattered myself that I had earned this affection, since it had not seemed my birthright, nor come to me earlier; but no, it was the grace of God, I must believe, touching his heart at last, as the rod of Moses brought forth waters from the rock.  Yet the simile is at fault here:  my father’s heart was never a stone, but tender and true and constant ever, even if locked away.