he future stood clearly and definitely outlined
before her eyes. Now indeed she was bound to Wilhelm, as was her
burning desire, and that far faster than by any documents with solemn
signatures and official seals. Her heart was so light, she felt as if
her feet no longer touched the ground and that she must float away into
the blue ether like the ecstatic saints in the church pictures of her
own country. She talked incessantly of the coming being, and thought of
nothing else waking or sleeping. She had not the slightest doubt that
it would be a boy. Isabel had to lay the cards a dozen times, and the
knave of spades came to the top nearly every time, an infallible
promise of a boy. And how beautiful he would be, the son of such a
handsome father, the fruit of such transcendent love! She consulted
with Wilhelm what name he should receive, and wanted a definite
statement or a suggestion, or at least some slight conjecture as to the
profession his father would choose for him. And should he be educated
in Paris? Would it not be too great a strain upon the little brain to
have to learn French, Spanish, and German at the same time? What
anxieties, what responsibilities, but at the same time what bliss! She
did not even let Wilhelm see the whole depth of her feelings, knowing
that he would not follow her in these extravagant raptures. She did not
let him see her kneel two or three times a day at the altar or on her
priedieu, and cover the silver Madonna del Pilar with ecstatic kisses.
He knew nothing of her having sent for the priest of the diocese and
ordered a number of masses. She did not take him with her when--her
impatience leading her far ahead of events--she rushed from shop to
shop looking for a cradle, and only put off buying one because she
could find none in all Paris that was sumptuous and costly enough.

This went on for about a fortnight, till one day she tottered into
Wilhelm's room, all dissolved in tears, sank sobbing at his feet, and
hid her face on his knee.

"Pilar, what has happened?" he cried in alarm.

"Oh, Wilhelm, Wilhelm," was all the answer he could get from her; and
only after long and loving persuasion did she murmur in such low and
broken tones that she had to repeat her words before he could
understand her, "My happiness was premature, I was mistaken."

She was inconsolable at the destruction of her airy castle, and was ill
for days, the first time since Wilhelm had known her. He sympathized