arms. I held her to my breast--I felt the quick beating of her heart
on me--I poured out the wild confession of my sorrow, my shame, my
love--I tasted again and again and again the sweetness of her lips. She
put her arms round my neck and drew her head back with a long sigh. "Be
merciful to my weakness," she whispered. "We must meet no more."

She pushed me back from her, with a trembling hand, and left the room.

I have broken my resolution not to write about myself--but there is no
egotism, there is a sincere sense of humiliation in me, when I record
this confession of misconduct. I can make but one atonement--I must at
once leave St. Germain. Now, when it is too late, I feel how hard for me
this life of constant repression has been.

Thus far I had written, when the nursemaid brought me a little note,
addressed in pencil. No answer was required.

The few lines were in Stella's handwriting: "You must not leave us
too suddenly, or you may excite my mother's suspicions. Wait until
you receive letters from England, and make them the pretext for your
departure.--S."

I never thought of her mother. She is right. Even if she were wrong, I
must obey her.

September 14.--The letters from England have arrived. One of them
presents me with the necessary excuse for my departure, ready made. My
proposal for the purchase of the yacht is accepted. The sailing-master
and crew have refused all offers of engagement, and are waiting at Cowes
for my orders. Here is an absolute necessity for my return to England.

The newspaper arrived with the letters. My anticipations have been
realized. Yesterday's paragraph has produced another volunteer
contributor. An Englishman just returned from Central America, after
traveling in Arizona, writes to the _Times._ He publishes his name
and address--and he declares that he has himself seen the two captive
priests.

The name of this correspondent carries its own guarantee with it. He is
no less a person than Mr. Murthwaite--the well-known traveler in India,
who discovered the lost diamond called "the Moonstone," set in the
forehead of a Hindoo idol. He writes to the editor as follows:

"Sir--I can tell you something of the two Jesuit priests who were the
sole survivors of the massacre in the Santa Cruz Valley four months
since.

"I was traveling at the time in Arizona, under the protection of an
Apache chief, bribed to show me his country and his nation (instead
of cutting my throat and