guests, and she sent that message to her
father which we have already noticed. Then she was again alone. How she
wished at that moment that she might ever be alone; that the form and
shape of human being should no more cross her vision; that she might
remain in this dark chamber until she died! There was no more joy for
her; her sun was set, the lustre of her life was gone; the lute had lost
its tone, the flower its perfume, the bird its airy wing. What a fleet,
as well as fatal, tragedy! How swift upon her improvidence had come her
heart-breaking pang! There was an end of faith, for he was faithless;
there was an end of love, for love had betrayed her; there was an end
of beauty, for beauty had been her bane. All that hitherto made life
delightful, all the fine emotions, all the bright hopes, and the rare
accomplishments of our nature, were dark delusions now, cruel mockeries,
and false and cheating phantoms! What humiliation! what despair! And
he had seemed so true, so pure, so fond, so gifted! What! could it be,
could it be that a few short weeks back this man had knelt to her, had
adored her? And she had hung upon his accents, and lived in the light of
his enraptured eyes, and pledged to him her heart, dedicated to him
her life, devoted to him all her innocent and passionate affections,
worshipped him as an idol! Why, what was life that it could bring upon
its swift wing such dark, such agonising vicissitudes as these? It was
not life; it was frenzy!

Some one knocked gently at her door. She did not answer, she feigned
sleep. Yet the door opened, she felt, though her eyes were shut and
her back turned, that there was a light in the room. A tender step
approached her bed. It could be but one person, that person whom she had
herself deceived. She knew it was her father.

Mr. Temple seated himself by her bedside; he bent his head and pressed
his lips upon her forehead. In her desolation some one still loved
her. She could not resist the impulse; she held forth her hand without
opening her eyes, her father held it clasped in his.

'Henrietta,' he at length said, in a tone of peculiar sweetness.

'Oh! do not speak, my father. Do not speak. You alone have cause to
reproach me. Spare me; spare your child.'

'I came to console, not to reproach,' said Mr. Temple. 'But if it please
you, I will not speak; let me, however, remain.'

'Father, we must speak. It relieves me even to confess my indiscretion,
my fatal folly. Fa