“You have told in those few words the story of my life—­the unfinished story.  A wanderer I was born, a wanderer I am, a wanderer I must ever be, until at last I find her whom I seek.  I knew her in a strange land, far from my birthplace, in a city where I was known but to a few, and I loved her.  She loved me, too, and that against her father’s will.  He would not have his daughter wed with one not of her race; for he himself had taken a wife among strangers, and while she was yet alive he had repented of what he had done.  But I would have overcome his reasons and his arguments—­she and I could have overcome them together, for he did not hate me, he bore me no ill-will.  We were almost friends when I last took his hand.  Then the hour of destiny came upon me.  The air of that city was treacherous and deadly.  I had left her with her father, and my heart was full of many things, and of words both spoken and unuttered.  I lingered upon an ancient bridge that spanned the river, and the sun went down.  Then the evil fever of the south laid hold upon me and poisoned the blood in my veins, and stole the consciousness from my understanding.  Weeks passed away, and memory returned, with the strength to speak.  I learned that she I loved and her father were gone, and none knew whither.  I rose and left the accursed city, being at that time scarce able to stand upright upon my feet.  Finding no trace of those I sought, I journeyed to their own country, for I knew where her father held his lands.  I had been ill many weeks and much time had passed, from the day on which I had left her, until I was able to move from my bed.  When I reached the gates of her home, I was told that all had been lately sold, and that others now dwelt within the walls.  I inquired of those new owners of the land, but neither they or any of all those whom I questioned could tell me whither I should direct my search.  The father was a strange man, loving travel and change and movement, restless and unsatisfied with the world, rich and free to make his own caprice his guide through life; reticent he was, moreover, and thoughtful, not given to speaking out his intentions.  Those who administered his affairs in his absence were honourable men, bound by his especial injunction not to reveal his ever-varying plans.  Many times, in my ceaseless search, I met persons who had lately seen him and his daughter and spoken with them.  I was ever on their track, from hemisphere to hemisphere, from continent to continent, from country to country, from city to city, often believing myself close upon them, often learning suddenly that an ocean lay between them and me.  Was he eluding me, purposely, resolutely, or was he unconscious of my desperate pursuit, being served by chance alone and by his own restless temper?  I do not know.  At last, some one told me that she was dead, speaking thoughtlessly, not knowing that I loved her.  He who told me had heard the news from another, who had received it on hearsay from a third.  None