I heard often from our travellers, and always in terms of kindness and affection.  At last their speedy return was announced; they were to sail in the “Arctic,” and we looked joyfully forward to the hour of their arrival.  Too soon came the news of the terrible disaster; a little while of suspense, and the awful certainty became apparent.  My kind, indulgent uncle and all his family, whom I loved as I would my own parents and sisters, were buried in the depths of the Atlantic.

I will not attempt to describe my grief; it has nothing to do with the story that is written here.  When, after a time, I came back to life and its interests, a startling intelligence awaited me.  My uncle had died intestate; his wife and children had perished with him; as next of kin, I was sole heir to his immense estate.  When my mind fully took in the meaning of all this I felt that a crisis was at hand.  Day by day I looked for William.

I had not long to wait.  I was sitting by my window on a bright October day, reading a book I loved well,—­“Shirley,” one of the three immortal works of a genius fled too soon.  As I read, I traced a likeness to my own experience; Caroline was a curious study to me.  I marvelled at her meek, forgiving spirit; if I would not imitate, I did not condemn her.

Then I heard the gate-latch click; I looked out through the vine-leaves, all scarlet with the glory of the season, and saw William coming up the walk.  I knew why he was there, and, still retaining the volume in my hand, went down to meet him.

We walked out in the grounds; it was a perfect afternoon; all the splendor of autumn, without a trace of its swift-coming decay.  Gold, crimson, and purple shone the forests through their softening haze; and the royal hues were repeated on the mountain, reflected in the river.  The sky was cloudless and intensely blue; the sunlight fell, with red glow, on the fading grass.  A few late flowers of gorgeous hues yet lingered in the beds and borders; and a sweet wind, that might have come direct from paradise, sighed over all.  William and I walked on, conversing.

At first we spoke of the terrible disaster and my loss; he could be gentle when he chose, and now his tenderness and sympathy were like a woman’s.  I almost forgot, in listening, what he was and had been to me.  I was reminded when he began to speak of ourselves; I recalled it fully, when again, with all the power that passion and eloquence could impart, he declared his love, and begged me to be his.

I looked at him; to my eye he seemed happy, hopeful, triumphant; handsomer he could not be, and to me there was a strange fascination in his lofty, masculine beauty.  I felt then, what I had always known, that I loved him even while I hated him, and for an instant I wavered.  Life with him!  It looked above all things dear, desirable!  But what!  Show such a weak, such a womanish spirit?  Give up my revenge at the very moment that it was within my grasp,—­the revenge I had lived for through so many years?  Never!—­I recalled the night under the lindens, and was myself again.