“‘Will you write the letter?’ I asked.

“’No.’—­She said the word with evident effort, and then, still more slowly, ’I will give you a message.  Say “I implore you never to write me again,—­to forget me.  I beseech of you not to try me by any farther appeals, as I shall but return them unopened."’ I wrote down the words as she spoke them.  ‘This is well,’ I said when she finished; ’but it is not enough.  I must have the letter.’

“‘The letter?’ she said.  ’What need of a letter? surely that is sufficient.’

“’I do not mean your letter.  I mean his,—­the one which you hold in your hands.’

“‘This?’ she queried, looking down on it,—­’this?’

“I thought the repetition senseless and affected, but I answered, ’Yes,—­that.  He will not believe you are in earnest if you keep his avowal of love.  You must give him up entirely.  If you let me send that back, with your words, he shall never—­at least from me—­have clew or reason for your conduct.  That will close the whole affair.’

“‘Close the whole affair,’ she repeated after me, mechanically,—­’close the whole affair.’

“I was getting heartily tired of this, and had no desire to listen to an echo conversation; so, without answering, I stretched out my hand for it.  She held it towards me, then drew it back and raised it to her heart with the same gesture I had marked when she first opened it,—­a gesture as I said, of that, which was less of a caress than a spasm.  Indeed, I think now that it was wholly physical and involuntary.  Then she handed it to me, and, motioning towards the door, said, ‘Go!’

“I rose, and, infamous as I thought her past deceit, wearied as I was with the interview, small claim as she had upon me for the slightest consideration, I said ’You have done well, Miss Ercildoune!  I commend you for your sensible decision, and for your ability, if late, to appreciate the situation.  I wish you all success in life, I am sure; and, permit me to add, a future union with one of your own race, if that will bring you happiness.’

“Heavens! what a face and what eyes she turned upon me as, rising, she once more pointed to the door, and cried, ‘Go!’ And indeed I went,—­the girl actually frightened me.

“When I got on to the lawn, I missed my bag and parasol, and had to return for them.  I opened the door with some slight trepidation, but had no need for fear.  She was lying prostrate upon the floor, as I saw on coming near, in a dead faint.  She had evidently fallen so suddenly and with such force as to have hurt herself; her head had struck against an ornament of the bookcase, near which she had been standing; and a little stream of blood was trickling from her temple.  It made me sick to behold it.  As I looked at her where she lay, I could not but pity her a little, and think what a merciful fate it would be for her, and such as she, if they could all die,—­and so put an end to what, I presume, though I never before thought of it, is really a very hard existence.