ing.

"You may say you must leave me a thousand times, Edgar, but I shall
never be left. I shall wait for you; and if it be never in your power
to claim me, I shall marry no other man. I will be yours in death as in
life."

And though I tried to shake her resolution, I knew that it would be so.
I knew that no other man would ever call her wife.

The day before I left, Mrs. Trevelyan, with her little Sir Rupert, took
possession of the Hall. She must have found many thorns in her path,
for, although she had attained her heart's desire, and was now mistress
of Crown Anstey, she was shunned and disliked by all the neighborhood.

"An adventuress," they called her, and as such refused to receive her
into their society. Perhaps she had foreseen this when she wished to
marry me.

By Sir John's influence, the post of secretary was found for me with an
English nobleman residing in Paris. I was to live in the house; my
duties were sufficiently onerous, and I was to receive a salary of one
hundred and fifty pounds per annum; so that, after all, I was better off
than I had once expected to be.

I bade farewell to Agatha, to Clare, to my kind friends Sir John and
Lady Thesiger. God knew the grief that filled my heart; I cannot
describe it.

On my road to the station I met the Crown Anstey carriage. Mrs Trevelyan
bowed to me from it. She was taking a drive with the little Sir Rupert.

"God bless the child!" I said, as his little face smiled from the
carriage window. "God bless him and send him a happy life!"

It took me some little time to settle down to my new life. My employer,
Lord Winter, lived in the Champs Elysees. He preferred Paris to England,
because it was brighter and gayer. I often wondered how that mattered to
him, for he lived only in his books.

I was required to assist him in making extracts, answering letters,
searching for all kinds of odd information, and I do believe I learned
more in that time than I should have done in a lifetime differently
spent.

I became reconciled to it after a hard struggle. From Harden Manor I
constantly received the kindest letters. Agatha wrote to me, and
although the word "love" seldom occurred in her letters, I knew her
heart was, and always would be mine. She would never forget me, nor
would that crown of all sorrows be mine--I should never have to give her
up to a wealthier rival. Although she said nothing of the kind in her
letters, I felt that it was true.

A year p