et voice, even though it bade me an eternal farewell! Could I but lay
my lips for the last, last time upon her hand, and see the tender pity
in her eyes, and be comforted!

Seeking, waiting, sorrowing thus, I grew daily weaker and paler,
scarcely conscious of my own failing strength, and indifferent to all
things save one. In vain Dr. Cheron urged me to resume my studies. In
vain Mueller, ever cheerful and active, came continually to my lodgings,
seeking to divert my thoughts into healthier channels. In vain I
received letter after letter from Oscar Dalrymple, imploring me to
follow him to Switzerland, where his wife had already joined him. I shut
my eyes to all alike. Study had grown hateful to me; Mueller's
cheerfulness jarred upon me; Dalrymple was too happy for my
companionship. Liberty to pursue my weary search, peace to brood over my
sorrow, were all that I now asked. I had not yet arrived at that stage
when sympathy grows precious.

So weeks went by, and August came, and a slow conviction of the utter
hopelessness of my efforts dawned gradually upon me. She was really
gone. If she had been in Paris all this time pursuing her daily
avocations, I must surely have found her. Where should I seek her next?
What should I do with life, with time, with the future?

I resolved, at all events, to relinquish medicine at once, and for ever.
So I wrote a brief farewell to Dr. Cheron and another to Mueller, and
without seeing either again, returned abruptly to England.

I will not dwell on this part of my story; enough that I settled my
affairs as quickly as might be, left an old servant in care of the
solitary house that had been my birthplace, and turned my back once more
on Saxonholme, perhaps for years--perhaps for ever; and in less than
three weeks was again on my way to the Continent.

The spirit of restlessness was now upon me. I had no home; I had no
peace; and in place of the sun there was darkness. So I went with the
thorns around my brow, and the shadow of the cross upon my breast. I
went to suffer--to endure,--if possible, to forget. Oh, the grief of
the soul which lives on in the night, and looks for no dawning! Oh, the
weary weight that presses down the tired eyelids, and yet leaves them
sleepless! Oh, the tide of alien faces, and the sickening remembrance of
one, too dear, which may never be looked upon again! I carried with me
the antidote to every pleasure. In the midst of crowds, I was alone. In
the mids