“One evening, in an obscure part of Cumberland, I was seeking a short cut to a neighbouring village through a gentleman’s grounds, in which there was a public path.  Just within sight of the house (which was an old, desolate building, in the architecture of James the First, with gable-ends and dingy walls, and deep-sunk, gloomy windows,) I perceived two ladies at a little distance before me; one seemed in weak and delicate health, for she walked slowly and with pain, and stopped often as she leaned on her companion.  I lingered behind, in order not to pass them abruptly; presently, they turned away towards the house, and I saw them no more.  Yet that frail and bending form, as I too soon afterwards learned—­that form, which I did not recognise—­which, by a sort of fatality, I saw only in a glimpse, and yet for the last time on earth,—­that form—­was the wreck of Lucy D——!

“Unconscious of this event in my destiny, I left that neighbourhood, and settled for some weeks on the borders of the Lake Keswick.  There, one evening, a letter, re-directed to me from London, reached me.  The hand-writing was that of Lucy; but the trembling and slurred characters, so different from that graceful ease which was wont to characterize all she did, filled me, even at the first glance, with alarm.  This is the letter—­read it—­you will know, then, what I have lost:—­

“’I write to you, my dear, my unforgotten ——­, the last letter this hand will ever trace.  Till now, it would have been a crime to write to you; perhaps it is so still—­but dying as I am, and divorced from all earthly thoughts and remembrances, save yours, I feel that I cannot quite collect my mind for the last hour until I have given you the blessing of one whom you loved once; and when that blessing is given, I think I can turn away from your image, and sever willingly the last tie that binds me to earth.  I will not afflict you by saying what I have suffered since we parted—­with what anguish I thought of what you would feel when you found me gone—­and with what cruel, what fearful violence, I was forced into becoming the wretch I now am.  I was hurried, I was driven, into a dreadful and bitter duty—­but I thank God that I have fulfilled it.  What, what have I done, to have been made so miserable throughout life as I have been!  I ask my heart, and tax my conscience—­and every night I think over the sins of the day; they do not seem to me heavy, yet my penance has been very great.  For the last two years, I do sincerely think that there has not been one day which I have not marked with tears.  But enough of this, and of myself.  You, dear, dear L——­, let me turn to you!  Something at my heart tells me that you have not forgotten that once we were the world to each other, and even through the changes and the glories of a man’s life, I think you will not forget it.  True, L——­, that I was a poor and friendless, and not too-well educated girl, and altogether unworthy of your destiny;