heart, but scorned to tremble on his lips.  No look of love ever fell on me.  His glance was cold and haughty.  Oh, how inconsistent is woman!  I yearned for his love; yet, had he tendered it, under my haughtiness would have dropped my idol—­have shivered it at my feet.  Weeks passed, and while near him I knew no sorrow; but the morning of my life was destined to be short.  The cloud that had lowered on the horizon suddenly darkened around.  That never-to-be-forgotten letter came, and I saw a great gulf open at my feet.  An invisible hand placed Dudley Stewart on one brink, and I was left upon the other; and an unknown messenger thundered the decree of separation—­’Forget the past and live again in the future!’ I started as from a frightful dream.  The cold reality forced itself upon me.  Mary, a suspicion stole into my heart, and stung me.  I thought for a brief time that Mr. Stewart loved you, and whose hand may register the darkened thoughts that crowded bitterly up?  The morning we left New Orleans, I went into the schoolroom for our books.  Ah! who may know the agony of that hour!  I sat down in his chair, and laid my head on his desk, and groaned in mine anguish of spirit.  Oh!  Mary, that was the blackest, bitterest hour of my life.  I had fancied he loved me:  I feared I was deceived; I hated—­despised myself for my weakness.  Yet I could not reproach him; he had never sought my love.

“I had just risen from his desk when Mr. Stewart came in.  He did not seem to see me, but took a seat near the door.  I was well-nigh exhausted, but strove to appear as cold and indifferent as ever.  I gathered up my books and turned to go, then he laid down his pen, and came to me.

“‘I believe you and your cousin leave to-day?’

“‘Yes. in this evening’s boat,’ I answered, much as usual.

“’I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage.  My kindest adieux to your cousin.  Good-by, Miss Hamilton.’

“He held out his hand.  I said ‘good-by’ as clearly and coldly as himself.  Our hands met but an instant:  there was no pressure—­no warmth, and then he opened the door for me to pass.  As he did so our eyes met; his glance was calm and cold, but his lips were firmly compressed.  Had he looked sad, mournful, or tender, I should have passed out and triumphed; but my overtasked strength gave way; a cold shudder crept through my frame, and consciousness forsook me.  I never fainted before or since.  When I revived, I raised my head and looked about me, I was reclining on a couch; he kneeling beside me, calmly, as he would have stood in class.  He held my hand, and pressed it warmly.

“‘Are you better now, Florence?’

“‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ I said, and rose to my feet.

“He still held my hand.  I withdrew it, and turned to the door.  He placed himself before it, and said—­’Florence, it was well done; you are an admirable dissembler, but I am not deceived.  You love me, and have for long, yet I freely acknowledge your love can never exceed my own.  I love you better than my life, though perfectly aware that we are now parted forever.  I am a poor tutor, dependent on my daily exertions for subsistence; you the cherished daughter of a wealthy and ambitious parent.’