.
He believes that I have formed no other attachment, or, if not entirely
heart free, it was but a girlish fancy, which had no real basis. He
assures me that I shall be happy as his wife, but my heart answers how
impossible that is! I do not ask happiness--let me but find quiet and
contentment--I seek no more.

"A year has gone by. We are in America again. General Harrington will
join me to-morrow. Ay, it is better thus--I would have it over. Perhaps,
in the peaceful home I shall find in my native land, I may learn to
still this poor heart to rest. I long to return.

"_He_ is not here. He left us when we reached Madrid, for the purpose of
entering France through the Basque countries; but this month the
General received another letter from him--he is staying in Italy. The
General, it seems, had written that he had obtained my consent to become
his wife, and the answer is--'Whatever will conduce to your happiness,
and that of the lady, must be acceptable to me.'

"Nothing more--not even an expression of astonishment! Yes, it is better
thus! I will marry General Harrington--he is the only being on earth who
cares for me--the only one who would seek to render me happy. In a few
years he will be an old man, and the trust and friendship I now feel,
will be sufficient to his contentment. This firm and trusting friendship
I shall always be willing to give. If I do not accept him, where am I to
turn for a protector--of what avail is my great wealth, since it cannot
win for me a home in any human heart?

"I marvel at my own calmness--pray Heaven that when too late, I do not
find that it has been only the apathy of despair. I _will_ be calm--my
hushed and trembling heart shall at least be silent--by-and-by it will,
perhaps, be numbed into insensibility. I can expect nothing more; for I
know that the uprooted flowers of a love like mine can have no
second-blossom, the sweet fountain of affection once wasted, its waters
may never flow again.

"I will write no more in my journal for a season--why should I make this
record of my weary life--this plaint of my troubled soul?

"I have suffered the one terrible grief of a lifetime; of what avail to
inscribe upon these pages a memento of a lasting wretchedness!"

CHAPTER LVI.

TOO LATE, TOO LATE.

"A year to-day since I became a wife, a year into which has been crowded
an eternity of sorrow and regret; can I never learn to endure in
silence! Did my husband mean to deceiv