“We were to spend the winter in Italy.  Meanwhile, we had another month in Paris.  Here I had found Joseph again, who troubled me a good deal with certain rumors he had received concerning Margaret.  According to these, she had been in feeble health ever since we left, and her increasing delicacy was beginning to alarm her friends.  ‘But,’ added another of Joseph’s correspondents, ’don’t let Westwood flatter himself that he is the cause, for she is cured of him; and there is talk of an engagement between her and a handsome young clergyman, who is both eloquent and fascinating.’

“This bit of gossip made me very bitter and angry.  ’Forget me so soon?’ I said; ‘and receive the attentions of another man?’ You see how consistent I was, to condemn her for the very fault I had myself been so eager to commit!

“Well, the round of rides, excursions, soirees, visits to the operas and theatres, walks on the Boulevards, and in the galleries of the Louvre, ended at last.  The evening before we were to set out for the South of France, I was at my lodgings, unpacking and repacking the luggage which I had left in Joseph’s care during my absence among the Alps; I was melancholy, dissatisfied with the dissipations which had exhausted my time and energies, and thinking of Margaret.  I had not preserved a single memento of her; and now I wished I had one,—­if only a withered leaf, or a line of her writing.  In this mood, I chanced to cast my eye upon a stray glove, in the bottom of my trunk.  I snatched at it eagerly, and, in the impulse of the moment,—­before I reflected that I was wronging Flora,—­pressed it to my lips.  Yes, I found the place where it had been mended, the spot Margaret’s fingers had touched, and gave it a kiss for every stitch.  Then, incensed at myself, I flung it from me, and hurried from the room.  I walked towards the Place de la Concorde, where the brilliant lamps burned like a constellation.  I strolled through the Elysian Fields, and watched the lights of the carriages swarming like fire-flies up the long avenue; stopped by the concert gardens, and listened to the glorified girls singing under rosy and golden pavilions the last songs of the season; wandered about the fountains,—­by the gardens of the Tuileries, where the trees stood so shadowy and still, and the statues gleamed so pale,—­along the quays of the Seine, where the waves rolled so dark below,—­trying to settle my thoughts, to master myself, to put Margaret from me.

“Weary at length, I returned to my chamber, seated myself composedly, and looked down at the glove which lay where I had thrown it, upon the polished floor.  Mechanically I stooped and took up a bit of folded paper.  It was written upon,—­I unrolled it, and read.  It was as if I had opened the record of doom!  Had the apparition of Margaret herself risen suddenly before me, I could not have been more astounded.  It was a note from her,—­and such a note!—­full of love, suffering, and