ich had no reality.

He thought he could measure the agitation that distressed him by this
disturbance of the brain, and he bathed his temples with cold water, and
sat down at the open window to try to regain calm and self-possession.
For a while the speculation on this strange problem occupied him, and he
wandered on in thought to ask himself which of the events of life should
be assumed as real, and which mere self delusions. "If, for instance,"
thought he, "I could believe that this dreadful scene with Florence
never occurred, that it was a mere vision conjured up by my own gloomy
forebodings, and my sorrow at our approaching separation--what ecstasy
would be mine. What is there," asked he of himself aloud, "to show or
prove that we have parted? What evidence have I of one word that may or
may not have passed between us, that would not apply to that wild scream
that so lately chilled my very blood, and which I now know was a mere
trick of imagination?" As he spoke, he turned to the table, and
there lay the proof that he challenged before him. There, beside his
half-written letter, stood the ring he had given her, and which she had
just given back to him. The revulsion was very painful, and the tears,
which had not come before, now rolled heavily down his cheeks. He took
up the ring and raised it to his lips, but laid it down without kissing
it These sent-back gifts are very sad things; they do not bury the
memory of the loved one who wore them. Like the flower that fell from
her hair, they bear other memories. They tell of blighted hopes, of
broken vows, of a whole life's plan torn, scattered, and given to the
winds. Their odour is not of love; they smell of the rank grave, whither
our hearts are hastening. He sat gazing moodily at this ring--it was the
story of his life. He remembered the hour and the place he gave it to
her; the words he spoke, her blush, her trembling hand as he drew it on
her finger, the pledge he uttered, and which he made her repeat to
him again. He started. What was that noise? Was that his name he heard
uttered? Yes, someone was calling him. He hastened to the door,
and opened it, and there stood Emily. She was leaning against the
architrave, like one unable for further effort; her face bloodless, and
her hair in disorder. She staggered forward, and fell upon his shoulder.
"What is it, Milly, my own dear sister?" cried he; "what is the matter?"

"Oh, Joseph," cried she, in a voice of anguish,