f life united to a kind of hopeful trust in mankind, that I kept
eternally balancing in my mind whether her intelligence or her
kindliness had the supremacy. She spoke to me much of the Harleys.
Ida was well, and at Florence. She had refused Wahnsdorf's offer of
marriage, and though ardently solicited to let time test her decision,
persisted in her rejection.

Whether she knew of my affection or not, I cannot say; but I opine not,
for she talked of Ida as one whose haughty nature would decline alliance
with even an imperial house if they deemed it a condescension; so that
the refusal of Wahnsdorf may have been on this ground. But how can it
matter to _me?_

I am to remain here a week, I think they said. Sir Horace Upton is
coming on his way south, and wishes to see me; but you will be with me
ere that time, and then we can plan our future together. As this web of
intrigue--for so I cannot but feel it--draws more closely around me, I
grow more and more impatient to break bounds and be away! It is evident
enough that _my_ destiny is to be the sport of some accident, lucky or
unlucky, in the fate of others. Shall I await this?

And they have given me money, and fine clothes, and a servant to wait
upon me, and treated me like one of condition. Is this but another
act of the drama, the first scene of which was an old ruined castle in
Ireland? They will fail signally if they think so; a heart can be broken
only once! They may even feel sorry for what they have done, but I can
never forgive them for what they have made me! Come to me, dear, kind
friend, as soon as you can; you little know how far your presence
reconciles me to the world and to yourself!--Ever yours,

C. M.

This letter Billy Traynor read over and over as he sat by Glencore's
bedside. It was his companion in the long, dreary hours of the night,
and he pondered over it as he sat in the darkened room at noonday.

"What is that you are crumpling up there? From whom is the letter?" said
Lord Glencore, as Billy hurriedly endeavored to conceal the oft-perused
epistle. "Nay," cried he, suddenly correcting himself, "you need not
tell me; I asked without forethought." He paused a few seconds, and then
went on: "I am now as much recovered as I ever hope to be, and you may
leave me to-morrow. I know that both your wish and your duty call you
elsewhere. Whatever future fortune may betide any of us, you at least
have been a true and faithful friend, and shall never