I cannot bring myself to speak of his treachery. No, Kitty, it would be to arraign myself were I to do so. My heartstrings are breaking, as I ask myself, "Is this, then, the love that I inspired? Are these the proofs of a devotion I fondly fancied eternal?" No more can I speak of our last meeting, the agony of which must endure while life remains. When he left me, I almost dreaded that in his despair he might be driven to suicide. He fled from the house,—it was past midnight,—and never appeared the whole of the following day; another and another passed over,—my terrors increased, my fears rose to madness. I could restrain myself no longer, and hurried away to confide my agonizing sorrows to James's ear. It was early, and he was still sleeping. As I stole across the silent room, I saw an open note upon the table,—I knew the hand and seized it at once. There were but four lines, and they ran thus:—

"Dear Jim,—The birds are wild and not very plenty; but
there is some capital boar-shooting, and hares in abundance.
"They tell me Lady George is in Florence; pray see her, and
let me know how she 's looking.
"Ever yours,
"George Tiverton.
"MAREMMA."

I tottered to a seat, Kitty, and burst into tears. Yours are now falling for me,—I feel it,—I know it, dearest I can write no more.

I am better now, dearest Kitty. My heart is stilled, its agonies are calmed, but my blanched cheek, my sunken eye, my bloodless lip, my trembling hand, all speak my sorrows, though my tongue shall utter them no more. Never again shall that name escape me, and I charge your friendship never to whisper it to my ears.

From myself and my own fortunes I turn away as from a theme barren and profitless. Of Mary Anne—the lost, the forlorn, and the broken-hearted, you shall hear no more.

On Friday last—was it Friday?—I really forget days and dates and everything—James, who has latterly become totally changed in temper and appearance, contrived to fix a quarrel of some kind or other on Sir Morris Penrhyn. The circumstance was so far the more unfortunate, since Sir M. had shown himself most kind and energetic about mamma's release, and mainly, I believe, contributed to that result. In the dark obscurity that involves the whole affair, we have failed to discover with whom the offence originated, or what it really was. We only know that James wrote a most indiscreet and intemperate note to Sir Morris, and then hastened away to appoint a friend to receive his message. By the merest accident he detected, in a passing travelling-carriage, a well-known face, followed it, and discovered—whom, think you?—but our former friend and neighbor, Dr. Belton.

He was on his way to England with despatches from Constantinople; but, fortunately for James, received a telegraphic message to wait at Florence for more recent news from Vienna before proceeding farther. James at once induced him to act for him; and firmly persuaded that a meeting must ensue, set out himself for the Modense frontier beyond Lucca.

I have already said that we know nothing of the grounds of quarrel; we probably never shall; but whatever they were, the tact and delicacy of Dr. B., aided by the unvarying good sense and good temper of Sir Morris, succeeded in overcoming them; and this morning both these gentlemen drove here in a carriage, and had a long interview with papa. The room in which he received them adjoined my own, and though for a long time the conversation was maintained in the dull, monotonous tone of ordinary speakers, at last I heard hearty laughter, in which papa's voice was eminently conspicuous.

With a heart relieved of a heavy load, I dressed, and went into the drawing-room. I wore a very becoming dark blue silk, with three deep flounces, and as many falls of Valenciennes lace on my sleeves. My hair was "à l'Impératrice," and altogether, Kitty, I felt I was looking my very best; not the less, perhaps, that a certain degree of expectation had given me a faint color, and imparted a heightened animation to my features. I was alone, too, and seated in a large, low arm-chair, one of those charming inventions of modern skill, whose excellence is to unite grace with comfort, and make ease itself subsidiary to elegance.

I could see in the glass at one side of me that my attitude was well chosen, and even to my instep upon the little stool the effect was good. Shall I own to you, Kitty, that I was bent on astonishing this poor native doctor with a change a year of foreign travel had wrought in me? I actually longed to enjoy the amazed look with which he would survey me, and mark the deferential humility struggling with the remembrance of former intimacy. A hundred strange fancies shot through me,—shall I fascinate him by mere externals, or shall I condescend to captivate? Shall I delight him by memories of home and of long ago, or shall I shock him by the little levities of foreign manner? Shall I be brilliant, witty, and amusing, or shall I show myself gentle and subdued, or shall I dash my manner with a faint tinge of eccentricity, just enough to awaken interest by exciting anxiety?