“If you wish to break the chains that bind us, say the word, and it shall be done—­I will take all the blame on myself, of harshness or unkindness, in the world’s eye.

“Yet, as I have said, I should be best pleased, at least for the present, to live under the same roof with you.  When the fever of my young life is spent; when placid age shall tame the vulture that devours me, friendship may come, love and hope being dead.  May this be true?  Can my soul, inextricably linked to this perishable frame, become lethargic and cold, even as this sensitive mechanism shall lose its youthful elasticity?  Then, with lack-lustre eyes, grey hairs, and wrinkled brow, though now the words sound hollow and meaningless, then, tottering on the grave’s extreme edge, I may be—­your affectionate and true friend,

“Perdita.”

Raymond’s answer was brief.  What indeed could he reply to her complaints, to her griefs which she jealously paled round, keeping out all thought of remedy.  “Notwithstanding your bitter letter,” he wrote, “for bitter I must call it, you are the chief person in my estimation, and it is your happiness that I would principally consult.  Do that which seems best to you:  and if you can receive gratification from one mode of life in preference to another, do not let me be any obstacle.  I foresee that the plan which you mark out in your letter will not endure long; but you are mistress of yourself, and it is my sincere wish to contribute as far as you will permit me to your happiness.”

“Raymond has prophesied well,” said Perdita, “alas, that it should be so! our present mode of life cannot continue long, yet I will not be the first to propose alteration.  He beholds in me one whom he has injured even unto death; and I derive no hope from his kindness; no change can possibly be brought about even by his best intentions.  As well might Cleopatra have worn as an ornament the vinegar which contained her dissolved pearl, as I be content with the love that Raymond can now offer me.”

I own that I did not see her misfortune with the same eyes as Perdita.  At all events methought that the wound could be healed; and, if they remained together, it would be so.  I endeavoured therefore to sooth and soften her mind; and it was not until after many endeavours that I gave up the task as impracticable.  Perdita listened to me impatiently, and answered with some asperity:—­“Do you think that any of your arguments are new to me? or that my own burning wishes and intense anguish have not suggested them all a thousand times, with far more eagerness and subtlety than you can put into them?  Lionel, you cannot understand what woman’s love is.  In days of happiness I have often repeated to myself, with a grateful heart and exulting spirit, all that Raymond sacrificed for me.  I was a poor, uneducated, unbefriended, mountain girl, raised from nothingness by him.  All that I possessed of the luxuries of life came from him.  He gave me an illustrious