e from Dalrymple, dated
Chamounix: the third from Hortense. I knew it was from her. I knew that
that small, clear, upright writing, so singularly distinct and regular,
could be only hers. I had never seen it before; but my heart
identified it.

That letter contained my fate. I took it up, laid it down, paced
backwards and forwards, and for several minutes dared not break the
seal. At length I opened it. It ran thus:--

"FRIEND AND FELLOW-STUDENT.

"I had hoped that a man such as you and a woman such as I might become
true friends, discuss books and projects, give and take the lesser
services of life, and yet not end by loving. In this belief, despite
occasional misgivings, I have suffered our intercourse to become
intimacy--our acquaintance, friendship. I see now that I was mistaken,
and now, when it is, alas! too late, I reproach myself for the
consequences of that mistake.

"I can be nothing to you, friend. I have duties in life more sacred than
marriage. I have a task to fulfil which is sterner than love, and
imperative as fate. I do not say that to answer you thus costs me no
pain. Were there even hope, I would bid you hope; but my labor presses
heavily upon me, and repeated failure has left me weary and heart-sick.

"You tell me in your letter that, by the time I read it, you will be far
away. It is now my turn to repeat the same words. When you come back to
your rooms, mine will be empty. I shall be gone; all I ask is, that you
will not attempt to seek me.

"Farewell. I accept your gift. Perhaps I act selfishly in taking it, but
a day may come when I shall justify that selfishness to you. In the
meantime, once again farewell. You are my only friend, and these are the
saddest words I have ever written--forget me!

"HORTENSE."

I scarcely know how I felt, or what I did, on first reading this letter.
I believe that I stood for a long time stone still, incapable of
realizing the extent of my misfortune. By-and-by it seemed to rush upon
me suddenly. I threw open my window, scaled the balcony rails, and
forced my way into her rooms.

Her rooms! Ah, by that window she used to sit--at that table she read
and wrote--in that bed she slept! All around and about were scattered
evidences of her presence. Upon the chimney-piece lay an envelope
addressed to her name--upon the floor, some fragments of torn paper and
some ends of cordage! The very flowers were yet fresh upon her balcony!
The sight of these things, whil