ot for my merit. And now--I
am not even the man that I was--my life seems torn out of my bosom. Oh,
Cora, Cora! life of my life! But you shall be happy, dear one! free and
happy after a little while. Ah! I know your gentle heart. You will weep
for the fate of him whom you loved--as a brother. Oh! Heaven! but your
tears will come from a passing cloud that will leave your future life
all clear and bright--not darkened forever by the slavery of a union
with one whom you do not--only because you cannot--love."

He walked slowly up and down the floor a few more turns, then glanced at
the clock on the mantel piece, and said:

"Time passes. I must write my letters."

There was an elegant little writing desk standing in the corner of the
room and filled with stationery, mostly for the convenience of the
ladies of the family when the Rockharrts occupied their town house.

He went to this, sat down and opened it, laid paper out, and then with
his elbow on the desk and his head leaning on the palm of his hand, he
fell into deep thought.

At length he began to write rapidly. He soon finished and sealed this
letter. Then he wrote a second and a longer one, sealed that also.
One--the first written--he put in the secret drawer of the desk; the
other he dropped into his pocket.

Then he took "a long, last, lingering look" around the room. This was
the room in which he had first met Cora after long years of separation;
where he had passed so many happy evenings with her, when his official
duties as an assemblyman permitted him to do so; this was the room in
which they had plighted their troth to each other, and to which, only
six hours before, they had returned--to all appearance--a most happy
bride and groom. Ah, Heaven!

His wandering gaze fell on the open writing desk, which in his misery he
had forgotten to close. He went to it and shut down the lid.

Then he passed out of the room, took his hat from the rack in the hall,
opened the front door, passed out, closed it behind him, and left the
house forever.

Outside was pandemonium. The illuminations in the windows had died down,
but the streets were full of revelers, too much exhilarated as yet to
retire, even if they had any place to retire to; for on that summer
night many visitors to the inauguration chose to stay out in the open
air until morning rather than to leave the city and lose the show.

Once again the hum and buzz of many voices was broken by a shrill cry
of: