You were right,
Paul: my taking you there WAS AN OMEN--not to you, who can never be
anything but proud, beloved, and true--but to ME of all the shame
and misery. Thank you for all you have done--for all you would do,
my friend, and don't think me ungrateful, only because I am
unworthy of it. Try to forgive me, but don't forget me, even if
you must hate me. Perhaps, if you knew all--you might still love a
little the poor girl to whom you have already given the only name
she can ever take from you--YERBA BUENA!
CHAPTER VII.
It was already autumn, and in the city of New York an early Sunday
morning breeze was sweeping up the leaves that had fallen from the
regularly planted ailantus trees before the brown-stone frontage of
a row of monotonously alike five-storied houses on one of the
principal avenues. The Pastor of the Third Presbyterian Church,
that uplifted its double towers on the corner, stopped before one
of these dwellings, ran up the dozen broad steps, and rang the
bell. He was presently admittted to the sombre richness of a hall
and drawing-room with high-backed furniture of dark carved woods,
like cathedral stalls, and, hat in hand, somewhat impatiently
awaited the arrival of his hostess and parishioner.
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