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“The uncle of this dear girl, and one who knows you well,” was answered, in a stern voice. “Knows you to be unworthy to touch even the hem of her garment.”

A dark scowl lowered upon the face of Burton. But Mr. Ellis returned his looks of anger glance for glance. Miriam was in terror at this unexpected scene, and trembled like an aspen. Instinctively she shrank towards her uncle.

Two or three persons, who sat near, were attracted by the excitement visible in the manner of all three, although they heard nothing that was said. Burton saw that they were observed, and, bending towards Mr. Ellis, said–

“This, sir, is no place for a scene. A hundred eyes will soon be upon us.”

“More than one pair of which,” replied Mr. Ellis, promptly, “will recognise in you a noted gambler, who has at least one wife living, if no more.”

As if stung by a serpent, Burton started to his feet and retired from the cabin.

“Oh, uncle! can what you say of this man be true?” asked Miriam, with a blanching face.

“Too true, my dear child! too true! He is one of the worst of men. Thank God that you have escaped the snare of the fowler!”

“Yes, thank God! thank God!” came trembling from the lips of the maiden.

Mr. Ellis then drew his niece to a part of the cabin where they could converse without being overheard by other passengers on board of the boat. To his inquiry into the reasons for so rash an act, Miriam gave her uncle an undisguised account of her mother’s distressed condition, and touchingly portrayed the anguish of mind which had accompanied her reluctant assent to the offer of Burton.

“And all this great sacrifice was on your mother’s account?” said Mr. Ellis.

“All! all! He agreed to settle upon her the sum of two thousand dollars a year, if I would become his wife. This would have made the family comfortable.”

“And you most wretched. Better, a thousand times better, have gone down to your grave, Miriam, than become the wife of that man. But for the providential circumstance of my seeing you in the carriage with him, all would have been lost. Surely, you could not have felt for him the least affection.”

“Oh, uncle! you can never know what a fearful trial I have passed through. Affection! It was, instead, an intense repugnance. But, for my mother’s sake, I was prepared to make any sacrifice consistent with honour.”

“Of all others, my dear child,” said Mr. Ellis, with much feeling, “a sacrifice of this kind is the worst. It is full of evil consequences that cannot be enumerated, and scarcely imagined. You had no affection for this man, and yet, in the sight of Heaven, you were going solemnly to vow that you would love and cherish him through life!”

A shudder ran through the frame of Miriam, which being perceived by Mr. Ellis, he said–

“Well may you shudder, as you stand looking down the awful abyss into which you were about plunging. You can see no bottom, and you would have found none. There is no condition in this life, Miriam, so intensely wretched as that of a pure-minded, true-hearted woman united to a man whom she not only cannot love, but from whom every instinct of her better nature turns with disgust. And this would have been your condition. Ah me! in what a fearful evil was this error of your mother, in opening a boarding-house, about involving her child! I begged her not to do so. I tried to show her the folly of such a step. But she would not hear me. And now she is in great trouble?”

“Oh yes, uncle. All the money she had when she began is spent; and what she now receives from boarders but little more than half pays expenses.”

“I knew it would be so. But my word was not regarded. Your mother is no more fitted to keep a boarding-house than a child ten years old. It takes a woman who has been raised in a different school, who has different habits, and a different character.”