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A few evenings after the conversation held with Edith, as given in the last chapter, Burton, in passing from the dining room, said to Miriam,–

“Come. I want you to play for me some of those beautiful airs in Don Giovanni.”

“Indeed you must excuse me Mr. Burton,” replied Miriam. I don’t feel like playing to-night.”

“Can’t excuse you, indeed,” said Burton, smiling pleasantly, and, at the same time, taking Miriam’s hand, which she quickly withdrew from his touch. The contact sent an unpleasant thrill along her nerves. “So come. I must have some music to-night.”

Miriam yielded to the request, although she felt in no mood for touching the piano. After playing several pieces, she lifted her hands from the instrument, and, turning away from it, said,–

“There, Mr. Burton, you must really excuse me. I cannot play to-night.”

“Excuse you! Certainly. And for the pleasure you have given me, accept my thanks,” replied Mr. Burton. There was a change in his tone of voice which Miriam did not comprehend. “And now,” he added, in a low voice, bending to her ear, “come and sit down with me on the sofa. I have something particular that I wish to say.”

Miriam did as she was desired, not dreaming of what was in the mind of Burton.

“Miriam,” said he, after a pause, “do not be startled nor surprised at what I am going to say.”

But his words and manner both startled her, and she was about rising, when he took her hand and gently detained her.

“Nay, Miriam,” said he, “you must hear what I wish to speak. From the day I entered this house, you have interested me deeply. Admiration was followed quickly by profound respect; and to this succeeded a warmer sentiment.”

A deep crimson instantly mantled the face of Miriam, and her eye fell to the floor.

“Can you, my dear young lady,” continued Mr. Burton, “reciprocate the feeling I have expressed?”

“Oh, sir! Excuse me!” said Miriam, so soon as she could recover her disordered thoughts. And she made another effort to rise, but was still detained by Burton.

“Stay! stay!” said he. “Hear all that I wish to utter. I am rich”–

But, ere he could speak another word, Miriam sprang from the sofa, and, bounding from the room, flew rather than walked up the stairs. The instant she entered her own room she closed and locked the door, and then, falling upon the bed, gave vent to a flood of tears. A long time passed before her spirit regained its former composure; and then, when her thought turned towards Mr. Burton, she experienced an inward shudder.

Of what had occurred, she breathed not a syllable to Edith when she joined her in the chamber to retire for the night.

“How my heart aches for mother!” sighed Edith, as she came in. “I have been trying to encourage her; but words are of no avail. ‘Where is all to end?’ she asks; and I cannot answer the question. Oh dear! What is to become of us? At the rate we are going on now, every thing must soon be lost. To think of what we have sacrificed and are still sacrificing, yet all to no purpose. Every comfort is gone. Strangers, who have no sympathy with us, have come into our house; and mother is compelled to bear all manner of indignities from people who are in every way her inferiors. Yet, for all, we are losing instead of gaining. Ah me! No wonder she is heart-sick and utterly discouraged. How could it be otherwise?”

Miriam heard and felt every word; but she made no answer. Thought, however, was busy, and remained busy long after sleep had brought back to the troubled heart of Edith its even pulsations.

“I am rich.” These words of Mr. Burton were constantly recurring to her mind. It was in vain that she turned from the idea presented with them: it grew more and more distinct each moment. Yes, there was a way of relief opened for her mother, of safety for the family, and Miriam saw it plainly, yet shuddered as she looked, and closed her eyes, like one about to leap from a fearful height.