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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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poverty brings in its train. In this endeavor he would almost certainly
have succeeded had he been spared; but the fatal accident nipped
his hopes in the bud, and she was left penniless and alone. Mr.
Braham had kept up his head, as the saying is, and none who knew
him had any idea of the clever manœuvring he had practised to
keep him and his daughter from falling out of the ranks in which
they had moved all their lives. A rash speculation had brought him to
this pass, and for years he had been struggling to extricate himself
from its consequences. Another year and all would have been well;
but death came too soon, and his daughter lived to reap what he
had sown.

Even the home had to be sold to satisfy the creditors, and when
this was done Emilia, a child of eighteen, faced the world with a
shrinking heart. She had in her purse barely £5; the few trinkets she
had possessed had been sold; she had set great store upon them,
and was amazed to discover that their value was so small. For the
last, last time she walked through the familiar rooms, and touched
the walls, and knelt by her bed; and then she crept out of the house
and proceeded to the two rooms she had taken in a street hard by.
It would have quite broken her heart to go out of the neighborhood
in which she and her dear father had lived.

Upon the first news of the dreadful loss she had sustained friends
came and sympathized with her, but when it was known that her
father died a ruined man, the sympathy expressed proved to be
mere vaporing; those who had spoken so softly and kindly came no
more. Emilia did not appeal to them; when they met her in the
streets, and passed by with hasty nods, she did not stop and ask the
reason why. Her heart was sorely wounded, but her pride also was
touched. The offence and the slight were more against the dead
than the living, and she suffered chiefly for the dear lost father's
sake. She went to her lodgings, and looked around at the cold walls
until she could look no more for the tears in her eyes.
 She lived quietly and sadly for two weeks, at the end of which
time she had but a guinea left of her £5. A terrible fear took
possession of her. What would become of her when her purse was
empty? She had not been entirely idle, but had made some efforts to
obtain a situation as governess. She could speak French and German
fluently; she could draw, she could paint, she was a good musician,
she could dance, and her manners were refined. But with all these
advantages she was unsuccessful. And now she had but a guinea to
her fortune, and the future was before her. She took refuge in
prayer; it comforted, but it was of no practical assistance to her.
Sunrise and sunset, sunrise and sunset again, and again, and again;
and now her purse was empty. But she was saved from absolute
despair. At the supreme moment a visitor knocked at her door, and
entered without waiting to be bidden.

Call her a lady if you will, our business with her will last but a
brief space. Her name was Seaton.

"I hear, Miss Braham, that you require a situation," said Mrs.
Seaton, unceremoniously.

"Yes, madam," said Emilia, her hand at her heart. This hard-
featured, hard-voiced visitor had surely been sent from heaven to
succor her. "Will you be seated?"

Mrs. Seaton took a chair without a word of thanks. "Have you

been out before?"

"Out, madam?" says Emilia. Unused to worldly ways and idioms,

she did not catch the meaning of the phrase.

"I suppose you have had other situations," explained Mrs. Seaton,
with ungracious condescension.

"No, madam."

"That is not encouragement. You have no character, then."

 "My character," faltered Emilia, "is well known. My dear father and
I have lived in this neighborhood many years."

"I do not like evasions. You know the kind of character I mean.
Fitness to teach young children, capacity, willingness, experience,
cheerfulness, readiness to make yourself useful in any way."

"I would be willing to make myself useful, madam, to do all I was

told. I think I could teach young children. Will you try me? I beg of
you to do so. I am in a dreadful position; I have not a shilling in the
world, and not a friend, I am afraid. Try me, madam. I will do
everything you wish."

"Umph! Not a shilling in the world! And not a friend! Still more
discouraging, because, Miss Braham, we generally get what we
deserve."

"I think I deserve friends, madam," said Emilia, striving to keep

back her tears, "but I have been unfortunate. I think you would be
satisfied with me. I would try very, very hard."

She held out her trembling hands; to a tender hearted woman the
affecting appeal would have been irresistible.

"A lady," said Mrs. Seaton, "has to be careful whom she takes into
her home. I have six young children. What can you teach?"

In timid accents Emilia went through her accomplishments.

"I have only your word for it," said Mrs. Seaton.

"I am telling the truth, indeed, madam."

"People are so deceitful, and what is almost as bad, so,

ungrateful. I'll take you on trial, Miss Braham, will you promise to
teach my sweet children and do everything that is required of you?"
 "Yes, madam," replied Emilia, eagerly, "everything; and you will
find me very grateful--indeed, indeed you will."

"I will wait to convince myself of that. When can you come?"

"At once, madam. To-day, if you wish.

"Not to-day; to-morrow, early. Servants invariably come at night,

which shows their unwillingness and the spirit in which they accept a
situation. Here is my address. You understand? I take you on trial
only."

"Yes, madam, I understand, and I thank you with all my heart."

"Of course, in these circumstances I can give you no wages for

the first month. If we suit each other we will arrange terms
afterward. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Quite agreeable, madam. I will come to-morrow morning."

"Very well; I shall expect you before twelve."

That night Emilia went to bed without food; but her week's rent
was paid and she left her lodgings without disgrace.

Then commenced a life of torture. The children she had to teach

were quarrelsome and vicious, and no taskmaster could have been
harder than Mrs. Seaton was to the servants in her house. Two had
left; two had given notice to leave. The consequence was that
Emilia's mistress called upon her to do every kind of menial office,
and willing as Emilia was, she found herself unequal to them. She
sat up late at night, and rose early in the morning, played the part of
nurse, schoolmistress, lady's maid, and housemaid, never receiving a
word of thanks, until existence became unbearable. Driven to
despair, without a home, without a friend, without money, she did
not know which way to turn. Delicately nurtured, a lady by instinct
and education, refined in her manners, and unused to menial work,
no more deplorable position could be imagined. It was while she was
in this sore strait that she made the acquaintance of Gerald Paget.

Twice in each week she had the privilege of walking out alone for
an hour in the afternoon. Gerald, passing her, was attracted by the
gentle beauty of her face, and blessed his good fortune when he
met her for the second time. On this second occasion chance
assisted him to an introduction. She was crossing the road,
engrossed in sad thought, when warning shouts aroused her from
her musings. There were cabs coming one way, carts another, and
between them she was in danger of being run over. She slipped and
fell, and Gerald, rushing forward, caught her up and bore her to the
pavement. But fright and weakness had prostrated her, and she lay
in his arms in a fainting condition. He carried her into a chemist's
shop, where she revived. The words of kindness and sympathy
which fell upon her ears when she opened her eyes, the tender
consideration expressed in Gerald's voice, overpowered the suffering
girl, and she burst into a passion of hysterical tears. With difficulty
he soothed her, but every word he uttered rendered more profound
the impression he had already produced upon the young girl. The
unaccustomed notes of tenderness touched Emilia's heart, and that
night as she lay in bed she recalled the words and the voice and
dwelt with infinite gratitude upon the image of the young gentleman
who had treated her with so much gentleness and consideration. But
he did not leave her before he saw her safely to Mrs. Seaton's door;
she would have had it otherwise, but he would not allow her to have
her way, and on their road he heard from her lips the pitiful story of
her misfortunes, He made inquiries, and learnt that her story was
true, and this increased his pity for her. As she dwelt upon his image
on that night, so did he on hers, and thus from their first meeting
was established a spiritual connection between them. On the
following day he called at Mrs. Seaton's house to inquire how Miss
Paget was after her accident, and as this was the first time that lady
had heard of it she was not in the most amiable of moods when she
next spoke to the young lady she had engaged, and whom she was
treating as a slave.
 "I cannot," she said, "have young gentlemen calling at my house
after my domestics."

But Emilia's spirit had been roused by the adventure. The

consciousness that she was not entirely friendless gave her
confidence and courage.

"It was not improper that he should call to inquire," she said. "He
would have done so had I been living at home with my father."

"The cases are different," observed Mrs. Seaton, loftily. "Not

entirely, madam," said Emilia, with a certain firmness. "Mr. Paget is a
gentleman, and I am a lady."

"You! A lady!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, in great astonishment.

"Yes, madam. Poverty does not degrade one."

Upon this Mrs. Seaton commenced to storm and use bad

language, and was so violent that Emilia was glad to escape from
the room. From that day the unkind woman practised a system of
oppression which almost drove Emilia mad. Had she possessed
sufficient means to keep herself for even a week she would have
fled from the house; but although she had now been in Mrs.
Seaton's service for longer than the stipulated month not a word had
been said about salary, nor had she received a shilling from her
mistress. She remained because she was compelled to remain, and
because she was powerless. Had Gerald been a lady instead of a
gentleman she would have mustered courage to ask assistance from
him, but as it was such a request was impossible. Mrs. Seaton's
character, however, was well known to her neighbors, and from one
with whom he had a slight acquaintance Gerald obtained information
which made him unusually serious and grave. He had continued to
call at the house, and had contrived to meet Emilia upon her
afternoon walks; but Mrs. Seaton had received him with unbending
stiffness, and he could not fail to observe Emilia's unhappiness. He
loved the young girl, and it was not long before he made his
sentiments known to her, but she, contrasting their positions, hardly
dared to listen to him. For this he had partly to thank Mrs. Seaton,
who, seeing that Gerald was strongly inclined to Emilia, treated the
young girl to long and bitter dissertations upon the "infamy "--it was
the word she used--of encouraging his attentions. She declared that
such conduct was indelicate, unwomanly, disgraceful, and heaven
knows what; there was no limit to her vituperation, and the unhappy
girl, conscious that she loved Gerald and was not his equal, passed
long nights in tears and sighs. When he commenced to speak upon
the theme which was nearest his heart, she said, "I must not listen
to you. I must not, I must not! If you have any respect for me, do
not continue." Having more than a respect for her, having now a
love as honest as it was profound, he obeyed her for a time; but still
when he parted from her at the door he said, "Good-by, Emilia," as
he pressed her hand, and she did not chide him for the familiarity.
This gave him what he lacked, courage, and he did not lose hope. At
length he resolved to put an end to this uncertainty, and as she
begged him not to speak, he did the next best thing. He wrote, and
entreated her to reply. But no reply came; and on the next occasion
of her hour's holiday he did not see her at the accustomed place.
What was the reason? Had he offended her? Had he been mistaken
in believing that she loved him? Why did she not write to him? Why
did she keep away from him? Lovers only who have gone through
the stages of doubt and uncertainty can understand what he
suffered.

But on the next occasion she did appear. He hastened to her side.

"Emilia!" he cried.

"Oh! hush," she sighed. "It is not right--it is not right!"

"It cannot be wrong," he said, tenderly, leading her to a

sequestered spot. "You are unhappy, Emilia."

"Very very unhappy. And I am born to make others so."

 "I will not hear you say that and be silent. You were born to make
me happy, and can--if you only will, Amelia; if you only will!"

His ardor, his impetuosity, his sincerity, made her weak. She clung
to him for support, and the next moment released herself and stood
upright, inwardly reproaching herself, for being so foolish. Had she
been the most artful of her sex she could not, all through, have
acted more cunningly to fasten the chains which bound him to her;
but she was only a weak and innocent girl, and when one such as
she meets with a genuine, honest soul like Gerald, love is more
powerful than cunning.

"Emilia, why did you not reply to my letter?"

"What letter?" she asked, in surprise.

"The letter I wrote to you. Five days I sent it, and I have counted
the minutes. It is not like you, Emilia, to make me suffer so."

She turned her sweet face to him.

"I have received no letter, Mr. Paget."

"You have received no letter from me--and you will not call me
Gerald!"

"I have received no letter," she repeated, "and I cannot call you--
what you desire."

"Well," he said, with hot impatience, "let that rest awhile; we will
speak of it again, and you will make me happy, I am sure, by doing
such a very little thing as that. But my letter? I sent it to you--posted
it with my own hands. Do you think I would entrust it to another?"

"How can I say? I do not even know what was in it. Five days
ago! And why did you write to me? Oh, Mr. Paget, have you no
regard for my helpless position?"
 "Can you ask me such a question, Emilia?" he said, reproachfully.
"Do you think there lives in the world a man who has a more sincere
respect and esteem for you than I have?"

"No, no," she cried. "I did not intend to do you an injustice. I beg
you to forgive me."

"Freely," he said, and spoke now with less impetuosity. "Whenever

I have approached the subject of my love for you--do not stop me,
Emilia; the words are spoken--whenever I have done that, you have
begged me to desist. Well, I obeyed you; not for all the wide world,
Emilia, would I cause you one moment's pain. But you did not tell
me not to write, and so I wrote--what was in my heart, what is in it
now, and I implored you to send me an answer soon. I am sure you
would have done so had you received it."

"I do not know. The letter never reached me."

"I addressed it to the care of Mrs. Seaton."

"If it was delivered to her, she did not give it to me."

"It must have been delivered to her; it must have been left at her
house, and to keep it from you is a crime. She shall be punished for
it."

"Oh, Mr. Paget, do not make things harder for me than they are
already!"

It was an involuntary confession, the first she had made to him,

and it opened his eyes.

"You are not happy with her?" he asked.

She did not reply. To have admitted it would have been almost
like asking protection from him. Her sensitive nature shrunk from
such an indelicacy.
 "I must go back now," she said, presently. "I have been away too
long."

"I will go with you, Emilia."

"I entreat you not to do so. It will subject me to further indignity."

In this was conveyed a second involuntary confession; he noted it

with burning indignation against Mrs. Seaton, but made no open
comment upon it.

"I obey you," he said, "in this as in everything else. You are
suffering, and I pity you from my heart of hearts. I am also
suffering. Will you not give me a little pity?"

"I am very sorry for you, Mr. Paget; indeed, indeed I am. It would
have been better for you had we never met."

"Can you utter such a heresy--you, the soul of truth and honesty?
I bless the day on which I met you; it will live forever in my memory
as the happiest in my life. Give me your hand. Why do you shrink?
You would give it to the commonest friend, and I am at least that.
Thank you. There! I merely press it, as an ordinary friend would do--
only you must feel the pulses of my heart in my fingers. That is not
my fault. I cannot help it beating, and beating for you, Emilia. May I
walk with you a little way?"

"Not far. You will not come with me to the door?"

"No, if you insist. I will leave you before we reach it."

"Before we are in the street, Mr. Paget."

"Yes, before we are in the street. But I give you fair warning,
Emilia. I must have an answer to my letter, and I must find out what
has become of it. Is not that right?"
 "I suppose it is."

"It is not a matter of supposing. It is or it is not. Be as frank with

me as I am with you, Emilia."

"It is right that you should ascertain what has become of it."

"Of course. It is mine or yours. No one else's. We have something

that is ours, in which no other person has any business to interfere.
I shall think of that with satisfaction."

"A simple letter, Mr. Paget."

"A simple letter," he said, very gravely, "in which the happiness of
an honest gentleman's life is enclosed. There! Do not tremble. I am
not going to say anything more serious just now, but said it must be
soon, Emilia, and then I shall know what the future will be for me.
And even if I were dumb and that letter was never recovered,
another can be written which shall reach its destination. Why do you
stop? Oh, yes, you wish me to say good-by here. Well, good-by,
Emilia!"

"Good-by, Mr. Paget."

"Will you not call me Gerald? Such a little word, Emilia!"

She fled; but not before she had given him a sweet and timid look
which caused his heart to throb with hope, as it was already
throbbing with love.

CHAPTER XXIV.
 SLANDER.

Later in the day Mrs. Seaton was informed that a gentleman was
waiting to see her. Entering the room she saw Gerald Paget. She
received him as usual with a frown, of which he took no notice. By
this time he was hardened to the coldness of her receptions of him.
Besides, he had prepared himself for the interview, and knew pretty
well what he intended to say to her.

"I thought, Mr. Paget," she said, "that I had made you understand
it is not my wish to encourage your visits to any of my servants."

"I did not inquire for any of your servants," he said, very politely,
"but for you."

"What have you to say to me?"

"Something to the point--presently. First, however, I must correct

you in a misconception into which you appear to have fallen. My
visits to this house have been quite open, and have not been made
to a servant."

"Indeed! To whom, then?"

"To a lady who accepted the position of governess to your

children. It is not usual to call these gentlewomen servants."

"I decline," said Mrs. Seaton, "to enter into any argument with
you on the point. I know the exact position of persons in my employ
and the proper titles to give them. You are a young man, and have
much to learn."

"I am aware of it, Mrs. Seaton; you, also, have something to

learn. But I would impress strongly upon you the fact that Miss
Braham is a lady, and--your equal."
 "By no means--but I shall not argue. Oblige me by coming at
once to the purport of your visit to me."

"The purport is a grave one, Mrs. Seaton, and I shall be sorry if

the result is not satisfactory to you. A few days ago I addressed a
letter to Miss Braham, which has not reached her hands."

"What has that to do with me?" Mrs. Seaton asked this question
without flinching. She had received the letter, read it, and if she had
any fear of consequences she did not show it. Her manner was
rather scornful than guilty.

"A great deal I should say," replied Gerald. "It is no light matter to
purloin a letter addressed to another person."

"Purloin, sir!"

"That is the word I have used, and intended to use. I wish to

know what you have done with that letter?"

"I have done nothing with it. No such letter was ever left at this
house to my knowledge."

"What if I set afoot an inquiry which would prove that to be not

the truth?"

Mrs. Seaton rang the bell. "I must request you to leave the
house," she said.

"I will do so in a minute or two. I happen to know that your

letter-box is kept locked, and that no one opens it but yourself. I
regret to be compelled to say to a lady that it is a wicked and
cowardly action to appropriate a letter not addressed to herself. Of
such an action you have undoubtedly been guilty. May I inquire if
the letter I refer to is still in existence?"
 "You may inquire what you please, sir, but I shall make no reply to
your insults. I presume you have obtained certain information from
Miss Braham.

"Yes, she informed me that she had not received a letter I wrote
to her."

"She informed you," said Mrs. Seaton, with a venomous look.

"When?"

"This afternoon."

"I understand. You and she are in the habit of meeting in secret
outside my house. Such conduct is infamous, and now that I have
positive knowledge of such proceedings I shall know how to act. Mr.
Paget, we are speaking here in private, with no listeners to report
what is said. Let me advise you to be careful as to what you say or
do about this imaginary letter of yours. The young person you refer
to may have a good name to lose, and it will be foolish on your part
to set a lady of my standing in society against her. Mud will stick, Mr.
Paget, never mind, by whom it is thrown, but when it is thrown by a
lady or gentleman of repute it will stick all the closer. I learn, too
late, that you have used my house as an assignation house----"

"You are stating what is false," cried Gerald, indignantly.

"As an assignation house," repeated Mrs. Seaton, with a malicious

smile. "Having discovered your baseness--for you are no gentleman,
Mr. Paget, and the other person implicated is no lady--there is only
one course open to me. That course I shall pursue. If you do not
leave my presence instantly I shall send for the police to remove
you."

With that, the venomous woman threw open the door, and Gerald
Paget, dismayed and discomfited, took his departure.
 "A nice mess I have made of it," he thought, as he walked
ruefully from the house, without venturing to look back. "What on
earth made me beard the lioness in her den? The lioness! Not at all.
There is something of nobility in that breed, and Mrs. Seaton hasn't
a particle of nobility about her. She is a serpent. Her fangs are
poisonous. How will she act toward Emilia? Mud will stick, she says.
But what does it matter if Emilia loves me?"

He allowed himself to be carried away by his enthusiasm. He was

young, impulsive, honest, and straightforward. Grand weapons in
honorable warfare, but when is war honorable? The world, with its
hidden snares and pitfalls, lay before him and Emilia, in whose pure
souls faith and love shone radiant. How would it fare with them
when pitted against envy, greed, and malice? Here was Mrs. Seaton,
ready to defame and blacken; and travelling swiftly toward them was
the beggar and spendthrift, Leonard, the man of selfish pleasure.

CHAPTER XXV.

LOST, OR SAVED?

Some three hours after Gerald's departure from the house, Emilia
was summoned into the presence of Mrs. Seaton. When she
received the message she was preparing for bed; it was night, and a
heavy rain was falling.

"I have sent for you," said Mrs. Seaton, gazing at the young girl
with pitiless eyes, "for the purpose of putting an immediate end to a
disgraceful state of affairs. On the day I consented to take you upon
trial, I informed you that I could give you no wages until I was
satisfied that you would suit me. Is that correct?"

"You said," replied Emilia, "that you could give me none for the
first month, and that, if we suited each other, you would arrange
terms afterward."

"You have been here nearly seven weeks, and no terms have
been arranged."

"That is true, madam."

"The fact being that we do not suit each other."

"I fear it is so."

"In which case--the basis of any terms whatever being suitability--

no wages are due to you up to this date. Legally you are entitled to
nothing."

"You know best, madam."

"I have allowed you to remain in my house in the hope that

certain doubts I entertained would be dispelled. I regret to say they
are not dispelled. However, I shall not charge you for your board and
lodging."

Emilia bowed her head. Utterly inexperienced as she was, she had
not the least doubt that Mrs. Seaton was putting the case fairly, and
that she could really be called upon to pay for the food and shelter
she had received.

"Ordinarily," continued Mrs. Seaton, "one would expect gratitude

for such kindness. I do not. Be kind enough to sign this paper."

Upon the table lay a written document which, with Emilia's

signature to it, would free Mrs. Seaton from any possible liability. In
the last sentence of the artfully-worded release, Emilia
acknowledged that she left Mrs. Seaton's house and service of her
own accord. The young girl took the pen which Mrs. Seaton held out
to her, and was about to sign when the elder lady said,

"I wish you to read and understand what you are signing. I shall
not put it in your power to say that I took advantage of your youth
and inexperience--for that is the way you would put it, I expect."

Emilia's eyes were blurred with tears, and although she took the
paper in her trembling hands, she could not read what was written
thereon.

"It is perfectly correct, is it not?" asked Mrs. Seaton.

"Yes, madam," replied Emilia, faintly, glad of the opportunity of

hiding her distress of mind, "if you say it is."

"Of course. You will observe that it places you in an unexpectedly

favorable position. Leaving my service of your own accord will make
it easier for you to obtain another situation, if such should be your
desire. Wait a moment. I should like your signature to be
witnessed."

She rang the bell, and a maid appeared, a new servant who had
arrived only that evening.

"I rang for you, Jane, to witness Miss Braham's signature to this
paper. You can write?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"Miss Braham has read the document, and perfectly understands

its terms. That is the truth, is it not, Miss Braham?"

"Yes, madam," said the helpless girl.

 "You hear, Jane? Now, Miss Braham, you can sign it if you wish."

Emilia wrote her name, and Jane wrote hers as witness, proud of
the confidence reposed in her. Then Mrs. Seaton gave the new
servant some whispered instructions, and she left the room.

Had Emilia's agitation allowed her, she could not have failed to
notice that while Jane was in the room Mrs. Seaton's voice was kind
and considerate, in striking contrast to the tone in which she spoke
when they were alone.

"And now, Miss Braham," said Mrs. Seaton, folding up the paper
and pocketing it with an air of triumph, "you will leave my house at
once."

"At once, madam!" exclaimed the bewildered girl.

"This instant. I will not allow you to remain in it another hour. As

the mother of a family I have a duty to perform. Your presence here
is a contamination."

"I will not answer your insults, madam," faltered Emilia, "but it is
night and rain is falling----"

"That is not my affair. You are well known, and can easily find
lodgement with some of your friends----"

"I have none. You surely cannot be so cruel as to drive me away

at such an hour."

"I am prepared for anything you may say. The paper you have
signed fully protects me from any base statements you may make
when you are no longer under my roof. You have no friends? Why,
there is Mr. Paget. Do you think I have been blind to your goings on?
Assignations, secret meetings, under my very eyes. Go to him. I
have no doubt you know where to find him."
 "Madam!"

"Oh, you may madam me as much as you like; it will not alter my
determination. Ah, Jane"--to the new servant who entered the room-
-"have you locked the door of the room which Miss Braham
occupied?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And brought her box down?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Give me the key of the room. That will do, my good girl; I do not
require you any more. Go down-stairs and get your supper. Leave
the door open." The merciless woman waited until Jane had reached
the basement and was out of hearing; then she spoke again. "If you
cannot take your box with you to-night, you can send for it in the
morning, but once out of my house you do not enter it again. Go
immediately, or I will send for the police."

She advanced toward Emilia, who retreated in affright; step by

step she hounded the poor girl to the street door, which she threw
open. The next moment Emilia was standing alone in the dark and
gloomy night.

Dazed and horrified, she felt as if her senses were leaving her;
she pressed her hands over her eyes, and cowered to the walls for
protection. But a friend was near.

Restless with love's fever, Gerald, heedless of the rain--for what is

so slight a thing to one who loves as he did?--was hovering about
the house in which his darling lived. He looked up at the windows,
and choosing one as the window of Emilia's room, gazed at it with
fervor, making of it a very heaven--a heaven to be glorified by her
presence. "To-morrow," he mused, as he paced slowly up and down
on the opposite side, "I will ask her plainly to be my wife. She is
unhappy--she told me so--and it must be because she is living with
such a wicked woman. Yes, I will ask her to-morrow. She loves me, I
am sure of it. It is only that she is poor and I am rich. What of that?
It will make it all the better for us--a thousand times better than if
she were rich and I were poor. Then we might never come together.
Dear Emilia, sweet Emilia, the sweetest, dearest, most beautiful on
earth! I love her, I love her, I love her!"

Thus ecstatically musing, he saw the street-door suddenly opened

and as suddenly and violently shut, and a figure thrust forth, as if in
anger. He had no idea that it was Emilia; the thought was too
barbarous to be entertained; but out of curiosity he crossed the road
and went up to it.

"Good God!" he cried; "Emilia!" and caught her up in his arms.

"Oh, Gerald, Gerald!" she sobbed, and lay there, helpless and
almost heartbroken, and yet with a sweet sense of comfort stealing
upon her great grief.

What mattered rain and darkness? She had called him Gerald, and
he knew for a surety that he was loved. He kissed her, and she did
not resist, but lay, sobbing more quietly now, within the sanctuary of
his loving arms.

Ecstasy at being permitted to embrace her enthralled him for a

time, but presently he begged her to explain the meaning of her
being thrust at such an hour from Mrs. Seaton's house. Before she
could render it the street-door was opened quietly and slowly, and a
woman's face peered out--Mrs. Seaton's.

"I thought as much," cried the stony-hearted woman, with a

laugh. "A pretty pair!" and then the door was closed again, and only
the sound of the falling rain was heard.

With a feeling of burning indignation Gerald looked down upon

the white face of his dear girl. Her eyes were closed; her arms hung
loose at her side; she had fainted.

He was thankful that the street was deserted and that there were
no witnesses near, for he had sense enough to know that Emilia's
reputation was at stake.

"You fiend," he muttered, with a dark glance at Mrs. Seaton's

house. "You abominable fiend!" And then he called softly, "Emilia,
Emilia! Look up, my darling. We are safe now, and we will never
part."

His voice, but not the words he spoke, reached her senses. She
opened her eyes, and clung more closely to him, murmuring,

"For Heaven's sake, take me from this place."

"Come, then," he said, supporting her. It was not until they had
traversed two or three streets that Gerald began to feel perplexed.
Where should he take her? He had no lady friend to whom he could
apply and who would be willing to receive Emilia. It would be
dangerous to her character to go to an hotel. The hour, the
circumstances, Emilia's agitated state, were all against them. She
was too weak to speak for herself; upon him devolved the
responsibility of providing for her, of protecting her, and he was
conscious that anything he might say to strangers would do her
more harm than good. There was already a danger that she was
being compromised. Some persons had passed them in the streets,
and dark as was the night, they could scarcely fail to see that his
arm was round her waist and that she was clinging to him. Now and
then sobs escaped from her overcharged heart. A few of the people
they met turned and looked after them, and Gerald heard one laugh.
It went through him like a sharp knife. If he could only get her safely
housed before she was recognized! But he was by no means sure
that this danger had been averted. Certainly two men who had
passed them were men he knew.
 As for Emilia, happily or unhappily for herself, she noticed
nothing. This terrible crisis had completely prostrated her, and all
that she was conscious of was that she was under the protection of
an honorable man, and had escaped from the oppression of a vile
woman.

Something must be done, and done soon. They could not walk
the streets the whole night. Every moment added to the dangers of
the position.

"Emilia, will you listen to me?"

"I am listening, Gerald."

It was as if she had called him so all her life; and, indeed, in the
purest innocence, she had often murmured his name in secret to
herself. He was thrilled with ineffable happiness.

"You understand what I am saying to you, Emilia?"

"Yes."

"It is very late."

With sudden terror she cried, "You will not leave me, Gerald? You
will not desert me?"

"No, indeed. Do not be afraid. I am yours forever, in truth and

honor. But we must be prudent."

"I will do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the
world but you."

In his honor and honesty lay her safety. Well was it for her that
she had by her side a man like Gerald.

"Where did you live before you went to Mrs. Seaton?" She
shuddered at the name, and answered, "In Grafton Street," and
mentioned the number.

They were nearly a mile from the house, and in Emilia's weak
state it took them more than half an hour to get there, but weak as
she was she did not complain of fatigue. She was content so long as
Gerald was with her. There was no cessation in the rain, which still
fell steadily.

There was not a light to be seen in any of the windows of the

house. Gerald knocked, but knocked in vain. In despair he turned
away, and Emilia walked patiently with him.

Then it forced itself upon him that there was still the alternative
of endeavoring to obtain a room for her in a respectable hotel. To
conduct her to one of doubtful repute was not to be thought of. It
was close on midnight when they reached the hotel he had in his
mind. He did not venture to take her inside the building with him.
Her swollen eyes, her death-white face, her dishevelled hair, her
clothes soaked with rain, would have ensured failure. Besides, until
he was sure of a shelter for her, he did not care to expose her to the
prying eyes of strangers.

He explained to her what he was about to do, but he was

doubtful whether she quite understood him. All she said was:

"I do whatever you bid me, Gerald. I have no friend in the world
but you."

She had spoken these words many times, and no appeal could
have been more plaintive. The pity of it was that every time she
uttered them her voice had grown fainter.

"Wait here for me, Emilia. I will not be gone long. If anyone
speaks to you do not answer them."

"You will come back to me, Gerald?"

 "Yes, surely, my darling."

He was fated not to succeed. His lame explanations, his stumbling

words, his references to "a young lady in an unfortunate position,"
his statement that it would be rendering him a personal obligation,
ensured failure. The lady manager of the hotel shook her head, and
said she could not accommodate his friend "under such
circumstances," adding that she was surprised he should ask her to
do so.

He rejoined Emilia, whose fingers tightened upon his arm as she

murmured:

"You have come back!"

They had not walked fifty yards before her strength gave way.
Again she fainted, and but for his support would have fallen to the
ground. Hailing a passing cab he, with the assistance of the driver,
lifted her into it, and gave the man instructions to drive to his house.
With a covert smile the man mounted to his box, and drove in the
given direction.

The house in which Gerald lived was that his parents had
occupied. He had been loth to leave it until the arrival of his half-
brother Leonard, when he had decided to discuss their future
movements with him. He had had a sincere affection for Leonard,
and relied greatly upon his judgment. Most of the servants had been
dismissed; only two remained, a housekeeper and a maid, and these
attended to the young gentleman's wants. They were in the habit of
retiring early to bed; Gerald had a latchkey with which he let himself
in when he came home late. Thus, in the present emergency, a
certain privacy was ensured.

Under no other circumstances than these would Gerald have

dreamed of taking Emilia to his house, but he was driven to a course
of which he inwardly disapproved. He had no time now to consider
consequences; Emilia demanded all his attention. She was still
unconscious when they arrived at the house, and he was compelled
to ask the assistance of the driver to carry her in. This being
accomplished, he paid the man liberally and dismissed him.

They had entered without being observed; the housekeeper and

the maid occupied rooms below, and Gerald supposed them to be
both asleep at the time. The room into which Emilia had been
carried was his favorite apartment, on the ground floor, and was
somewhat daintily furnished. From a sideboard he took wine and
biscuits, and from an inner room he brought towels and a basin of
cold water. The fire in the grate had burned low, but he threw wood
and coals on it, and it was soon in a bright blaze. Then he drew the
sofa upon which Emilia was lying close to the fireplace, and stood
debating with himself what he should do. Had the housekeeper been
the only servant in the house he would have called her in to attend
to Emilia; she had been many years in the service of his family, and
he thought he could trust her; but he was sure he could not trust
the maid, who was an inveterate chatterbox. Before he had decided
what to do Emilia revived; struggling to her feet she gazed around in
stupefaction. In as few words as possible Gerald explained what had
occurred; she listened to him in silence, then sank upon the couch,
and burst into a passion of tears.

"Are you angry with me, Emilia?" he asked, in deep concern. "I
could do nothing else. To have kept you in the streets any longer
would have been your death. Listen to the rain; it is coming down
harder than ever. Here at least you are safe for a few hours. The
housekeeper is asleep down-stairs. I will call her up if you wish, but
there is another servant who cannot be trusted, I fear."

"If anyone sees me here I shall die of shame," said Emilia, in a

low tone. "What will become of me--oh, what will become of me?"

"There is nothing to fear," said Gerald, "and no one need be

aware that you are in the house. Do you not know already that I
love you with all my heart and soul, and that by consenting to
become my wife you will make me the happiest man in the world?
The position in which we are placed has been forced upon us. No
one shall have the power of placing an evil construction upon it. I
will see to that. Your happiness, your honor, are in my keeping. Can
you not trust me, Emilia?"

With these and other words as true and tender, he succeeded in

calming her. With innate delicacy he did not press her to answer him
at such an hour; he would wait till to-morrow; meanwhile he
explained his plan to her. She was to occupy the room till the
morning, and to lock herself in. He would find a bed elsewhere.
Before the servants rose he would return to the house and make a
confidant of the housekeeper; the younger servant should be sent
upon a distant errand which would keep her from the house till
eleven or twelve o'clock. Before that time Emilia would be settled
elsewhere. Thus the secret would be preserved and the tongue of
scandal silenced.

"And then, Emilia," he said, gazing upon her with ardent affection,
"I will ask for my reward."

It was impossible, even if her heart were not already his, that she
should fail to be touched by his delicacy and devotion. Tenderly and
humbly she thanked him, and intended to say that she would give
him his answer on the morrow, but love broke down the barrier of
reserve. Involuntarily she held out her hands to him, and he clasped
her in his arms and kissed her on her lips, and said that the embrace
was a pledge of truth and constancy.

"From you, Emilia, as well as from me!"

"Yes, Gerald," she sighed; "I love you!"

So through the clouds of this dolorous night broke the sun of

faithful mutual love. It might have been excused him had he
lingered, but for her sake he would not.
 "I shall wait in the passage," he said, "to hear you turn the key.
No one will disturb you. The housekeeper does not enter this room
till I ring in the morning, and I am not always an early bird. Good-
night, dear love."

"Good-night, dear Gerald. Are you sure you will be able to get a
bed?"

"I can get a dozen. God bless and guard you!"

They kissed each other once more, and then he left her. He
waited in the passage to hear the key turned, and with a lover's
foolish fondness kissed the door which shut his treasure from his
sight. He listened in the passage a moment or two to assure himself
that all was still and safe, and then he crept to the street-door, which
he opened and closed very softly. He did not seek a bed elsewhere,
having come to the determination that it would be a better security
from slanderous tongues that it should be supposed he slept in his
own house that night. So he made pilgrimages through the streets,
ever and anon coming back to the house which sheltered his darling.
But once it fatefully happened that he was absent for some thirty or
forty minutes, during which period a startling and unexpected
incident occurred, the forerunner of as strange a series as ever
entered into the history of two loving hearts.
 CHAPTER XXVI.

SLANDER'S FOUL TONGUE.

The young servant whose loquacious tongue Gerald did not dare
to trust was not asleep when he brought Emilia home. She was in
bed, it was true, but wide-awake, with a candle alight at her
bedside. It was against the rules of the house, but she did not care
for that, being deeply engrossed in a thrilling story which set rules at
defiance and drove sleep away. She heard the street-door opened
and closed, then a murmur of voices, like the distant murmur of the
sea, and then the second opening and closing of the street-door. The
sounds did not arouse her curiosity, she was so profoundly
interested in the fate of the hero and heroine that nothing short of a
miracle could have diverted her attention. So she read on with eager
eyes and panting bosom, long after Gerald had left the house, and
would have continued to read, had she not come to those tantalizing
words, "To be continued in our next." Then, with a long-drawn sigh,
she turned in her bed--and forgot to blow out the candle.

Emilia had intended not to sleep; she would keep awake all the
night, and wait for Gerald in the morning--the morning of the day
which was to be for her the herald of a new and happier life. She
bore Mrs. Seaton no malice for the indignities she had suffered in
her house. There was no room in Emilia's heart for anything but
love. With what heartfelt gratitude did she dwell upon the image of
Gerald, the noblest man on earth. "I thank God for him," she sighed.
"Dear Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast given me the love of a man
like Gerald. My Gerald! Is it true? Can it be real? Ah, yes; I see his
dear eyes looking into mine; his dear voice sinks into my heart.
Make me grateful for the happiness before me!" It stretched out into
the future years, a vista of peace and love and joy. Insensibly she
sank upon her knees and prayed, and when she rose the room, the
world, and all that it contained, were transfigured. How fair, how
sweet was life! She had prayed for Gerald and for herself, had
prayed that she might prove worthy of him, and might be endowed
with power to brighten his days. Then she sat before the fire, and
clasping her knee with her hands, imagined bright pictures in the
glowing points of lights. She felt herself sinking to sleep. "I will just
close my eyes for a few minutes," she thought. There were warm
rugs about the room. Loosening her dress, she threw herself upon
the couch, and covering herself with the rugs, fell asleep with joy in
her heart and a smile on her lips.

At half-past three in the morning Gerald, after an absence of half

an hour or so, was returning to the street in which his house was
situated, when he saw an angry glare in the sky, and heard sounds
of confusion in the near distance. Almost instantly A fire-engine
raced past him. He hastened after it, partly from instinct, but chiefly
because it was going in his direction. He had, however, no idea that
the danger personally concerned him. Long before he reached his
street he was undeceived. Crowds of people encompassed him, and
he found it difficult to proceed. Three or four fire-engines were at
work; firemen were risking their lives in the enthusiasm of their
noble work; policemen were keeping back the excited lookers-on.

"My God!" he cried, as he turned the corner; "it is my house, and

Emilia is there!"

Frantically he strove to force his way through the crowd, which

would not give way for him at first, but he redoubled his efforts, and
running under or leaping over firemen, policemen, and the men and
women who were surging round, he tore off his coat, and rushed
toward the burning building. He was pulled back, and escaping from
those who held him, darted forward again with despairing cries, and
was caught in the arms of one who knew him.

"It's all right," cried this man to the firemen. "Mr. Paget has
escaped from the house."

He who spoke thought that Gerald, instead of striving to enter the

house, had just emerged from it, and his idea was strengthened by
the circumstance that Gerald was in his shirt sleeves. One in
authority came up to Gerald and said:

"We were getting frightened about you, sir. We got out a young
lady and your two servants----"

"A young lady!" gasped Gerald, and inwardly thanked God that
Emilia was saved.

"Yes, sir. There's some mystery about her, because your

housekeeper said there was no young lady there, but out she came,
or was carried, insensible----"

"For God's sake," cried Gerald, "don't tell me she is injured!"

"I think not, sir; but she was in an insensible condition, and some
people took her away. Your housekeeper said you were the only one
left. Now that we know no lives are lost we can get on with our
work. Your house is a wreck, sir; there'll be very little saved out of
it."

"Where was the young lady taken to?" asked Gerald, in a state of
indescribable agitation, detaining the officer by the sleeve.

"I can't tell you, sir. Excuse me, I must attend to my duty."

Releasing himself from Gerald's grasp, he plunged among his

men. Gerald, in his eager anxiety for information of Emilia, asked a
dozen persons around him, and obtained a dozen different answers.
One said one thing, one said another, and each speaker contradicted
the one who had previously spoken. At length he saw on the
outskirts of the crowd his housekeeper talking to a lady, and running
toward them, he saw that the lady was Mrs. Seaton.

"I am glad you are saved, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton, with
freezing politeness. "I was just asking your housekeeper who is the
young lady who was carried out of your house barely half dressed,
and she insists that no such person was there. But as a hundred
people saw her, there is, of course, no disputing a fact so clear.
Perhaps you can tell us who she is?"

A number of neighbors gathered around, some who knew both

Gerald and Emilia.

"And I said, sir," said the housekeeper, "that their eyes deceived
them----"

"Oh, that is very likely," interposed Mrs. Seaton, in her most

malicious tone.

"Because," continued the housekeeper, "when we went to bed last

night there was nobody but me and that little wretch of a Susan in
the house. It was her who set the place on fire, sir, with her novel
reading. I hope she'll be put in prison for it."

"But enlighten us, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton. "Who was the
young lady?"

"You are a malicious scandal-monger," cried Gerald, and tore

himself away, feeling that he had made for himself and Emilia a
more bitter enemy in calling Mrs. Seaton by that name.

He continued his inquiries for Emilia, but could obtain no

satisfaction. So many different stories were related to him that he
could not tell which was the true one.
 The truth was that Emilia, being aroused from sleep by the fire,
unlocked the door of the room in which Gerald had left her, and
rushed into the passage. The place was strange to her, and she
might have been burned to death had not a fireman, who was
making his way past her, pulled her into the street. There she was
taken up by one and another, striving all the while to escape the
prying eyes of those around her, until, overcome by the complicated
horror of her position, she swooned away. Two compassionate
maiden ladies, sisters, pitying her state, said they would take care of
her, and conveyed her to their home.

There they tended her, wondering who she was, for she was a
stranger to them, as they were to her. But the terrors through which
Emilia had passed had completely prostrated her; the whole of the
succeeding day she fell from one faint into another, and the doctor
who was called in said it would be best to wait awhile before they
questioned her too closely. "She has had a severe mental shock," he
said, "and if we are not careful she will have an attack of brain
fever." On the evening of the following day she was somewhat
better, but her mind was almost a blank as to what had transpired
during the past twenty-four hours. The image of Gerald occasionally
obtruded itself, and if he had appeared, all would have been well; he
was her rock, her shield, and, incapable as she was of coherent
thought, his absence weighed upon her as a reproach, and she felt
as if God and man had forsaken her. An experience still more cruel
was in store for her.

It was night, and she heard a voice in the adjoining room that
smote her with terror, the voice of Mrs. Seaton speaking to the
ladies who had befriended her. More successful than Gerald, Mrs.
Seaton had hunted her down.

"It's a neighborly duty," Mrs. Seaton was saying, "to prevent kind-
hearted ladies like yourselves from being imposed upon. I have
suffered from her artfulness and wickedness myself, and there was
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