humility,—­poured out of a heart so deep and tender and true, that the shallowness of my own seemed utterly contemptible, in comparison with it.  I cannot tell you what was written, but it was more than even my most cruel and exacting pride could have asked.  It was what would once have made me wild with joy,—­now it almost maddened me with despair.  I, who had often talked fine philosophy to others, had not a grain of that article left to physic my own malady.  But one course seemed plain before me, and that was, to go quietly and drown myself in the Seine, which I had seen flowing so swift and dark under the bridges, an hour ago, when I stood and mused upon the tragical corpses its solemn flood had swallowed.

“I am a little given to superstition, and the mystery of the note excited me.  I have no doubt but there was some subtile connection between it and the near presence of Margaret’s spirit, of which I had that night been conscious.  But the note had reached me by no supernatural method, as I was at first half inclined to believe.  It was, probably, the touch, the atmosphere, the ineffably fine influence which surrounded it, which had penetrated my unconscious perceptions, and brought her near.  The paper, the glove, were full of Margaret,—­full of something besides what we vaguely call mental associations,—­full of emanations of the very love and suffering which she had breathed into the writing.

“How the note came there upon the floor was a riddle which I was too much bewildered to explain by any natural means.  Joseph, who burst in upon me, in my extremity of pain and difficulty, solved it at once.  It had fallen out of the glove, where it had lain folded, silent, unnoticed, during all this intervening period of folly and vexation of soul.  Margaret had done her duty, in time; I had only myself to blame for the tangle in which I now found myself.  I was thinking of Flora, upon the deck of the steamship, when, in a moment of chagrin, she had been so near throwing herself over; wondering to what fate her passion and impetuosity would hurry her now, if she knew; cursing myself for my weakness and perfidy; while Joseph kept asking me what I intended to do.

“‘Do? do?’ I said, furiously,—­’I shall kill you, that is what I shall do, if you drive me mad with questions which neither angels nor fiends can answer!’

“‘I know what you will do,’ said Joseph; ’you will go home and marry Margaret.’

“You can have no conception of the effect of these words,—­Go home and marry Margaret.  I shook as I have seen men shake with the ague.  All that might have been,—­what might be still,—­the happiness cast away, and perhaps yet within my reach,—­the temptation of the Devil, who appealed to my cowardice, to fly from Flora, break my vows, risk my honor and her life, for Margaret,—­all this rushed through me tumultuously.  At length I said,—­

“’No, Joseph; I shall do no such thing.  I can never be worthy of Margaret; it will be only by fasting and prayer that I can make myself worthy of Flora.’