"
"My own Miriam, what mean you? I ought to know."
"Oh, Paul! Paul! I am one foredoomed to bring misery and destruction
upon all who love me; upon all whom I love."
"My own dearest, you are ill, and need change, and you shall have it,
Miriam," he said, attempting to soothe her with that gentle, tender,
loving manner he ever used toward her.
But shuddering sighs convulsed her bosom, and--
"Oh, Paul! Paul!" was all she said.
"Is it that promise that weighs upon your mind, Miriam? Cast it out; you
cannot fulfill it; impossibilities are not duties."
"Oh, Paul! would Heaven it were impossible! or that I were dead."
"Miriam! where are those letters you wished to show me?"
"Oh! do not ask me, Paul! not yet! not yet! I dread to see them. And
yet--who knows? they may relieve this dreadful suspicion! they may point
to another probability," she said, incoherently.
"Just get me those letters, dear Miriam," he urged, gently.
She arose, tottering, and left the room, and after an absence of fifteen
minutes returned with the packet in her hand.
"These seals have not been broken since my mother closed them," said
Miriam, as she proceeded to open the parcel.
The first she came to was the bit of a note, without date or signature,
making the fatal appointment.
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