who would doubtless return to England for the funeral."

My tears fell one by one upon the open letter. I had loved my father
tenderly in my heart. His very roughnesses and eccentricities were dear
to me. I could not believe that he was gone. I could not believe that I
should never hear his voice again!

Dr. Cheron came over, and laid his hand upon my shoulder.

"Come," he said, "you have much to do, and must soon be on your way. The
express leaves at midday. It is now ten, you have only two hours left."

"My poor father!"

"Brunet," continued the Doctor, "shall go back with you to your lodgings
and help you to pack. As for money--"

He took out his pocket-book and offered me a couple of notes; but I
shook my head and put them from me.

"I have enough money, thank you," I said. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he replied, and, for the first time in all these months,
shook me by the hand. "You will write to me?"

I bowed my head in silence, and we parted. I found a cab at the door,
and Brunet on the box. I was soon at home again. Home! I felt as if I
had no home now, either in France or England--as if all my Paris life
were a brief, bright dream, and this the dreary waking. Hortense was
out. It was one of her busy mornings, and she would not be back till the
afternoon. It was very bitter to leave without one last look--one last
word. I seized pen and paper, and yielding for the first time to all the
impulses of my love, wrote, without weighing my words, these few brief
sentences:--

"I have had a heavy loss, Hortense, and by the time you open this letter
I shall be far away. My father--my dear, good father--is no more. My
mother died when I was a little child. I have no brothers--no
sisters--no close family ties. I am alone in the world now--quite alone.
My last thought here is of you. If it seems strange to speak of love at
such a moment, forgive me, for that love is now my only hope. Oh, that
you were here, that I might kiss your hand at parting, and know that
some of your thoughts went with me! I cannot believe that you are quite
indifferent to me. It seems impossible that, loving you as I love, so
deeply, so earnestly, I should love in vain. When I come back I shall
seek you here, where I have loved you so long. I shall look into your
eyes for my answer, and read in them all the joy, or all the despair, of
the life that lies before me. I had intended to get that portrait copied
again for you, because you saw in it