"But something I must do to bind you to me," she said.

"I shall not rest till there is some written bond, something legal between us.

I shall alter my will, and give you the place in it you occupy in my life." "Pilar," exclaimed Wilhelm, "if you love me, and if you wish that we should remain what we are to one another, never say such a word again.
If I ever find out that you have mentioned me in your will, all is at end between us." She drooped her head disconsolately, and he continued in a milder tone--"Dorfling's will has not brought me so much luck that I should ever wish to inherit money again." The idea to which she had given expression did not leave Pilar, however.

There should be something in writing--some document with stamps and seals to testify that Wilhelm belonged to her.

This wish assumed the proportions of a superstition with her, and she never rested till it was satisfied.
One morning the inmates of the house on the Boulevard Pereire saw the arrival of three carriages, which discharged eight persons at the door.
A well-dressed gentleman rang the bell, marshaled his seven companions in the hall, and desired to be shown up to the countess.