O Min, Min!
She never knew how I loved her, or she would never have rejected me like this!
This was my consolation—ample, wasn’t it?
Chapter Seven.
Her Letter.
Ay de mi! Un anno felice,
Parece un soplo ligero:
Perô sin dicha un instante,
Es un siglo de tormente.
”—And with mine eyes
I’ll drink the words you send, though ink be made of gall!”
It was broad daylight when I got home.
I did not go to bed; but, passed the weary morning hours in walking up and down my room, chewing the bitter cud of hopeless fancy, and in a state of excitement almost approaching to madness.