, now loomed shadowy and
impossible before me. The emptiness of the first floor parlour as
I passed its open door struck a chill upon me, reminding me of the
disappearance of a friend to whom, in spite of moral disapproval, I had
during these last few months become attached. Unable to work, the old
pain of loneliness returned upon me. I sat for awhile in the darkness,
listening to the scratching of the pen of my neighbour, the old
law-writer, and the sense of despair that its sound always communicated
to me encompassed me about this evening with heavier weight than usual.

After all, was not the sympathy of the Lady 'Ortensia, stimulated for
personal purposes though it might be, better than nothing? At least,
here was some living creature to whom I belonged, to whom my existence
or nonexistence was of interest, who, if only for her own sake, was
bound to share my hopes, my fears.

It was in this mood that I heard a slight tap at the door. In the dim
passage stood the small slavey, holding out a note. I took it, and
returning, lighted my candle. The envelope was pink and scented. It was
addressed, in handwriting not so bad as I had expected, to "Paul Kelver,
Esquire." I opened it and read:

"Dr mr. Paul--I herd as how you was took hill hafter the party. I feer
you are not strong. You must not work so hard or you will be hill and
then I shall be very cros with you. I hop you are well now. If so I am
going for a wark and you may come with me if you are good. With much
love. From your affechonat ROSIE."

In spite of the spelling, a curious, tingling sensation stole over me
as I read this my first love-letter. A faint mist swam before my eyes.
Through it, glorified and softened, I saw the face of my betrothed,
pasty yet alluring, her large white fleshy arms stretched out invitingly
toward me. Moved by a sudden hot haste that seized me, I dressed myself
with trembling hands; I appeared to be anxious to act without giving
myself time for thought. Complete, with a colour in my cheeks unusual to
them, and a burning in my eyes, I descended and knocked with a nervous
hand at the door of the second floor back.

"Who's that?" came in answer Miss Sellars' sharp tones.

"It is I--Paul."

"Oh, wait a minute, dear." The tone was sweeter. There followed the
sound of scurried footsteps, a rustling of clothes, a banging of
drawers, a few moments' dead silence, and then:

"You can come in now, dear."

I entered. It was a small, u