“It will not be too much for me, then, to conclude, that in your present estimation my nephew stands committed to a past dishonesty?”
“It has been one of my chief sources of regret—one of them I say,” repeated Mr. Stuyvesant, “that any loss of esteem on the part of your nephew, must necessarily reflect upon the peace if not the honor of a man I hold in such high regard as yourself. I assure you I feel it quite as a brother might, quite as a brother.”
Mr. Sylvester at once rose. “ Mr. Stuyvesant,” declared he, “my nephew is as honest a man as walks this city’s streets. If you will accord me a few minutes private conversation, I think I can convince you so.”
“I should be very glad,” replied Mr. Stuyvesant, glancing towards the extension-room where he had left his daughter. “I have always liked the young man.” Then with a quick look in the other’s face, “You are not well, Mr. Sylvester?”
“Thank you, I am not ill; let us say what we have to, at once, if you please.” And with just a glance at Paula, he followed the now somewhat agitated director from the room.
Cicely who had started forward at their departure, glanced down the long parlor before her, and hastily faltered back; Paula was praying. But in a few moments her feelings overcame her timidity, and hurrying into her friend’s presence, she threw her arms about her neck and pressed her cheek to hers. “Let us pray together,” she whispered.
Paula drew back and looked her friend in the face. “You know what all this means?” she asked.
“I guess,” was the low reply.
Paula checked a sob and clasped Cicely to her bosom. “He loves me,” she faltered, “and he is doing at this moment what he believes will