ined to distract her
attention somehow, "this is an expensive hotel; we must be thinking of
what money we have left to take us back. We have been here some time;
and it is a costly journey, all the way to England."

"Oh, but not to England--not to England, mother!" Natalie exclaimed,
quickly.

"Why not to England, then?"

"Anywhere else, mother," the daughter pleaded. If you wish it, we will
go away: no doubt General von Zoesch knows best; there is no hope. We
will go away from Naples, mother; and--and you know I shall not be much
of a tax on you. We will live cheaply somewhere; and perhaps I could
help a little by teaching music, as Madame Potecki does. Whenever you
wish it, I am ready to go."

"But why not to England?"

"I cannot tell you, mother."

She rose quickly, and passed into her own room and shut the door.

There she stood for a second or two, irresolute and breathless, like one
who had just escaped into a place of refuge. Then her eyes fell on her
writing desk, which was on a side-table, and open. Slowly, and with a
strange, pained expression about her mouth, she went and sat down, and
took out some writing materials, and absently and mechanically arranged
them before her. Her eyes were tearless, but once or twice she sighed
deeply. After a time she began to write with an unsteady hand:

"My Dearest,--You must let me send you a few lines of farewell; for it
would be hard if, in saying good-bye, one were not permitted to say a
kind word or two that could be remembered afterward. And your heart will
have already told you why it is not for you and me now to look forward
to the happiness that once seemed to lie before us. You know what a
terrible result has followed from my rashness; but then you are
free--that is something; for the rest, perhaps it is less misery to die,
than to live and know that you have caused another's death. You
remember, the night they played _Fidelio_, I told you I should always
try to remain worthy of your love; and how could I keep that promise if
I permitted myself to think of enjoying a happiness that was made
possible at the cost of my father's life? You could not marry a woman so
unnatural, so horrible: a marriage purchased at such a price would be
foredoomed; there would be a guilty consciousness, a life-long remorse.
But why do I speak? Your heart tells you the same thing. There only
remains for us to say good-bye, and to thank God for the gleam of
happiness that shone o