Henry,—­Among the manny sacrifisis I imposed upon myself for your sake was that of not giving you anny news of me; but an iresistible voise now compells me to let you know the wrong you have done me.  I know beforehand that your soul hardened in vise will not pitty me.  Your heart is deaf to feeling.  Is it deaf to the cries of nature?  But what matter?  I must tell you to what a dredful point you are gilty, and the horror of the position to which you have brought me.  Henry, you knew what I sufered from my first wrong-doing, and yet you plunged me into the same misery, and then abbandoned me to my dispair and sufering.  Yes, I will say it, the belif I had that you loved me and esteemed me gave me corage to bare my fate.  But now, what have I left?  Have you not made me loose all that was dear to me, all that held me to life; parents, frends, onor, reputation,—­all, I have sacrifised all to you, and nothing is left me but shame, oprobrum, and—­I say this without blushing—­poverty.  Nothing was wanting to my misfortunes but the sertainty of your contempt and hatred; and now I have them I find the corage that my project requires.  My decision is made; the onor of my famly commands it.  I must put an end to my suferins.  Make no remarks upon my conduct, Henry; it is orful, I know, but my condition obliges me.  Without help, without suport, without one frend to comfort me, can I live?  No.  Fate has desided for me.  So in two days, Henry, two days, Ida will have seased to be worthy of your regard.  Oh, Henry! oh, my frend! for I can never change to you, promise me to forgive me for what I am going to do.  Do not forget that you have driven me to it; it is your work, and you must judge it.  May heven not punish you for all your crimes.  I ask your pardon on my knees, for I feel nothing is wanting to my misery but the sorow of knowing you unhappy.  In spite of the poverty I am in I shall refuse all help from you.  If you had loved me I would have taken all from your friendship; but a benfit given by pitty my soul refussis.  I would be baser to take it than he who offered it.  I have one favor to ask of you.  I don’t know how long I must stay at Madame Meynardie’s; be genrous enough not to come there.  Your last two vissits did me a harm I cannot get ofer.  I cannot enter into particlers about that conduct of yours.  You hate me,—­you said so; that word is writen on my heart, and freeses it with fear.  Alas! it is now, when I need all my corage, all my strength, that my faculties abandon me.  Henry, my frend, before I put a barrier forever between us, give me a last pruf of your esteem.  Write me, answer me, say you respect me still, though you have seased to love me.  My eyes are worthy still to look into yours, but I do not ask an interfew; I fear my weakness and my love.  But for pitty’s sake write me a line at once; it will give me the corage I need to meet my trubbles.  Farewell, orther of all my woes, but the only frend my heart has chosen and will never forget.

Ida.