You don't know what you have done. You don't know how
deeply you have wounded me. Oh!" she cried, throwing herself in despair
on a sofa that stood near her, "shall I ever recover my self-respect?
shall I ever forgive myself for what I have done to-night?"

I implored her pardon; I assured her of my repentance and regret in
words which did really come from my heart. The violence of her agitation
more than distressed me--I was really alarmed by it.

She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet with modest
dignity, and silently held out her hand in token that my repentance was
accepted.

"You will give me time for atonement?" I pleaded. "You will not lose all
confidence in me? Let me see you again, if it is only to show that I am
not quite unworthy of your pardon--at your own time; in the presence of
another person, if you like."

"I will write to you," she said.

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow."

I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor.

"Make your goodness to me complete," I said. "Don't mortify me by
refusing to take my letter."

"I will take your letter," she answered, quietly. "Thank you for writing
it. Leave me now, please. Good-night."

I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand. I left her, with
my mind in a tumult of contending emotions, which gradually resolved
themselves into two master-feelings as I walked on: Love, that adored
her more fervently than ever; and Hope, that set the prospect before me
of seeing her again on the next day.

CHAPTER XII. THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT.

A MAN who passes his evening as I had passed mine, may go to bed
afterward if he has nothing better to do. But he must not rank among
the number of his reasonable anticipations the expectation of getting
a night's rest. The morning was well advanced, and the hotel was astir,
before I at last closed my eyes in slumber. When I awoke, my watch
informed me that it was close on noon.

I rang the bell. My servant appeared with a letter in his hand. It had
been left for me, three hours since, by a lady who had driven to the
hotel door in a carriage, and had then driven away again. The man had
found me sleeping when he entered my bed-chamber, and, having received
no orders to wake me overnight, had left the letter on the sitting-room
table until he heard my bell.

Easily guessing who my correspondent was, I opened the letter. An
inclosure fell out of it--to which, for the moment, I paid no at