Week after week I lingered in Paris, hoping against hope, and always seeking her.  I had a haunting conviction that she was not far off, and that, if I only had strength to persevere, I must find her.  Possessed by this fixed idea, I paced the sultry streets day after day throughout the burning months of June and July; lingered at dusk and early morning about the gardens of the Luxembourg, and such other quiet places as she might frequent; and, heedless alike of fatigue, or heat, or tempest, traversed the dusty city over and over again from barrier to barrier, in every direction.

Could I but see her once more—­once only!  Could I but listen to her sweet voice, even though it bade me an eternal farewell!  Could I but lay my lips for the last, last time upon her hand, and see the tender pity in her eyes, and be comforted!

Seeking, waiting, sorrowing thus, I grew daily weaker and paler, scarcely conscious of my own failing strength, and indifferent to all things save one.  In vain Dr. Cheron urged me to resume my studies.  In vain Mueller, ever cheerful and active, came continually to my lodgings, seeking to divert my thoughts into healthier channels.  In vain I received letter after letter from Oscar Dalrymple, imploring me to follow him to Switzerland, where his wife had already joined him.  I shut my eyes to all alike.  Study had grown hateful to me; Mueller’s cheerfulness jarred upon me; Dalrymple was too happy for my companionship.  Liberty to pursue my weary search, peace to brood over my sorrow, were all that I now asked.  I had not yet arrived at that stage when sympathy grows precious.

So weeks went by, and August came, and a slow conviction of the utter hopelessness of my efforts dawned gradually upon me.  She was really gone.  If she had been in Paris all this time pursuing her daily avocations, I must surely have found her.  Where should I seek her next?  What should I do with life, with time, with the future?

I resolved, at all events, to relinquish medicine at once, and for ever.  So I wrote a brief farewell to Dr. Cheron and another to Mueller, and without seeing either again, returned abruptly to England.

I will not dwell on this part of my story; enough that I settled my affairs as quickly as might be, left an old servant in care of the solitary house that had been my birthplace, and turned my back once more on Saxonholme, perhaps for years—­perhaps for ever; and in less than three weeks was again on my way to the Continent.

The spirit of restlessness was now upon me.  I had no home; I had no peace; and in place of the sun there was darkness.  So I went with the thorns around my brow, and the shadow of the cross upon my breast.  I went to suffer—­to endure,—­if possible, to forget.  Oh, the grief of the soul which lives on in the night, and looks for no dawning!  Oh, the weary weight that presses down the tired eyelids, and yet leaves them sleepless!  Oh, the tide of alien faces, and the sickening remembrance of one, too dear, which may never be looked upon again!  I carried with me the antidote to every pleasure.  In the midst of crowds, I was alone.  In the midst of novelty, the one thought came, and made all stale to me.  Like Dr. Donne, I dwelt with the image of my dead self at my side.