and the house where Ellen had lived, I bent my steps towards the park, which is situated in the environs—­a place where I used often to walk in company of my youthful dreams.  It was September, and evening was closing in.  The oblique rays of the setting sun sent a reddish gleam the leafy branches of the old oaks.  I seated on a bench beneath a tree on one side of the path.  As I drew near I recognized Ellen.  I remained rooted to the spot where I stood, not daring to move a step.  She was stooping forward with her head bent down, while with the end of her parasol she traced lines upon the gravel.  She had not seen me.  I turned back instantly, and retired without making any noise.  When I had gone a little distance, I left the path and struck into the wood.  Once there, I looked back cautiously.  Ellen was still at the same place and in the same attitude.  Heaven knows what thoughts passed through my brain!  I longed to see her closer.  What danger was there?  I was sure she would not know me again.  I walked towards her with the careless step of a casual passer-by, and in a few minutes passed before her.  When my shadow fell on the path, she looked up. and our eyes met.  My heart was beating fast.  Her look was cold and indifferent; but suddenly a strange light shot into her eyes, and she made a quick movement, as if to rise.  I saw no more, and went on without turning round.  Before I could get out of the park her carriage drove past me, and I saw her once more as I had seen her five years before in Central Park, pale, with distended eyes, and her anxious looks fixed upon me.  Why did I not bow to her?  I cannot say; my courage failed me.  I saw the light die out of her eyes.  I almost fancied that I saw her heave a sigh of relief as she threw herself back carelessly in the carriage; and she disappeared.  I was then thirty-six, and I am almost ashamed to relate the schoolboy’s trick of which I was guilty.  I sent her the following lines:  ’A devoted friend, whom you obliged in former days, and who met you yesterday in the park without your recognizing him, sends you his remembrances.’  I posted this letter a few minutes before getting into the train which was to take me to New York; and, as I did so, my heart beat as violently as though I had performed a heroic deed.  Great adventures, forsooth!  And to think that my life presents none more striking, and that trifles such as these are the only food for my memory!

“A twelvemonth later I met Francis Gilmore in Broadway.  The world is small—­so small that it is really difficult to keep out of the way of people one has once known.  The likeness of my former pupil to his sister struck me, and I spoke to him.  He looked at me at first with a puzzled expression, but after a few moments of hesitation he recognized me, a bright smile lighted up his pleasant face, and he shook hands warmly.

“‘Mr. Warren,’ he exclaimed, ’how glad I am to see you!  Ellen and I have often talked of you, and wondered what could have become of you.  Why did we never hear from you?’