She was about to tear it across; but a sudden thought stayed her hand. She folded it up and placed it in the envelope. 'If I die, let them send it to him. And stay! I will put a little piece of my hair in it.' She took up a pair of scissors, and going to the glass, severed a glossy curl. She folded it in a piece of paper, and wrote, 'With Eliza's love;' then laid it within the letter, which she sealed with black wax, and instantly locked her desk.
As she did so the door opened, and her husband entered. He threw himself on one of the couches with some commonplace remark, such as people make when they think it incumbent on them to say something, but are urged by no impulse from the heart.
'Paris is beginning to shew signs of getting thin,' he continued lazily. 'We must leave it soon. I think of Rome for the winter. What do you say?'
'I have no objection,' she answered, trying to speak cheerfully; but there was a tremble in her voice, and something that seemed to strike him as unusual, for he turned round and looked at her.
'What is the matter?' he asked.
'Nothing; there is nothing the matter with me.'
'Very well; that's all right.' He closed his eyes.
She stood looking at him wistfully. Though her own love had grown dim and faint as his for her, and another face—that of him whom she had turned from in her infatuation—was ever before her, yet the change pained her. She went to him, and taking his hand, said gently, but with a thrill in her voice that told of deep emotion: 'Do you remember that evening—it is nearly a year ago now—when you first told me that you loved me, and asked me to be your wife? I was frightened, and said it was impossible the thing could ever be; but you knelt at my feet, and declared that the happiness of your life depended on me.'
'Well, of course. And what then?' he answered, somewhat impatiently.
'It does not now, I'm afraid.'