“Never, so help me God!” he said, earnestly.

“You have relieved me greatly,” I said, pressing my lips on that dear and revered hand which had so often ministered to me and mine in sorest agony—­a hand spotless as the heart within—­yet, brown and withered as the leaves of autumn.

“Now you, in turn, must relieve me,” he said, gravely.  “Who was it that alleged these things?  They were slanders, and deserve to be nailed to the wall, and shall be if power be mine to do so.”

“I cannot tell you.  Do not ask me.  It was not asserted that you pronounced my disease epilepsy, but insinuated that you thought so.  Dr. Physick’s opinion was given to confirm this impression.”

“Have you traitors in your own household, Miriam?” he asked, sternly.

I was silent—­shedding quiet tears, however.

“I have thought so before,” he said, low, between his set teeth.  “But, thank God, you can put your foot on them all before very long!—­This seems a nice young man you are going to marry, but I never liked his father.  I say this frankly to you, child; but, in truth, I have had no sufficient reason for this distaste or prejudice—­it is no more, I confess.  You are very much in their hands for the present, I fear; but I hope they will do you justice.”

“I shall not marry Claude Bainrothe,” I rejoined at last, firmly.  “Let this be perfectly understood between us two, Dr. Pemberton.  That marriage will never take place!”

“Why, your own father told me you were engaged in October last!”

“I have changed my mind since then.  Understand me, I admire Mr. Bainrothe for many qualities—­I am attached to him even; and he is infinitely to be pitied for some reasons, certainly; but marry him I never will!”

“And this is your resolution?”

“It is.  But, on second thoughts, I will ask you to keep your knowledge of it strictly to yourself.  I cannot tell you my motives of action now, but they are good.”

“Miriam, you must not ask me to be your confederate in any scheme of coquetry or caprice such as this concealment points to.  You must deal with this young man openly—­no double dealings, my child, or I shall come to the rescue.”

“Have you ever known me to play fast and loose, Dr. Pemberton?  Is that my characteristic?  Ask Mr. Gerald Stanbury—­ask all who know me—­if I have ever been guilty of deceit, or time-serving, or caprice, or perfidy.  No, Dr. Pemberton, it is on his own account solely that I wish to keep this matter quiet for the present.  Should he wish to proclaim it, I surely shall not object.  But I seek only to shield him from mortification, from reproach, in the line of conduct that I am adopting—­best for both.”

“And to give yourself margin for a change of mind again—­little fox!  Ah, Miriam, it is the old story—­a lovers’ quarrel!  I understand it all perfectly now.  Don’t be too hard on the young fellow; he seemed very much in love.  Relent in time; he will value your mercy more than your justice, perhaps.”