man's life that she should not have
found a native grave. She had enjoyed but a life-interest in the
estate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of her
husband's--one who knew not Felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to
blot out every vestige of her.

On a certain day in February--the cheerful day of St. Valentine, in
fact--a letter reached Mrs. Fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised
her for that particular day a long time before.

It announced that Fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he
had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical
man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set
them right. He had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of
tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a
substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget
the past and bring herself to join him.

There the practical part ended; he then went on--

"My last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear Grace
and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. You may be
absolutely indifferent to what I say, but let me say it: I have never
loved any woman alive or dead as I love, respect, and honor you at this
present moment. What you told me in the pride and haughtiness of your
heart I never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; but
even if I had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you.
Is there any use in telling you--no, there is not--that I dream of your
ripe lips more frequently than I say my prayers; that the old familiar
rustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me?
If you could condescend even only to see me again you would be
breathing life into a corpse. My pure, pure Grace, modest as a
turtledove, how came I ever to possess you? For the sake of being
present in your mind on this lovers' day, I think I would almost rather
have you hate me a little than not think of me at all. You may call my
fancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that 'nature is one
in love, and where 'tis fine it sends some instance of itself.' I will
not intrude upon you further now. Make me a little bit happy by
sending back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to a
short interview. I will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance,
if you will only afford me this slight means of making a few
explanations, and of putting my position before you