awaking. Until now I had not known that I
dreamed. I only knew it when I awoke. I
only knew it as I sat with my apron over my
head, in the kitchen, and felt my eyes scorched
by the unconsumed fire at my heart.

There was no saucepan on the fire—the
embers were dying out—the cat was lying inside
the fender, with its red eyes shining up at me,
making me think of the woman's eyes, till I
shuddered.

Poor me! That little romance was
swallowed down like a bitter pill. It was a bit of
summer to look back on afterwards—a summer
that never could come again. A while after, I
copied some lines into the cover of my
hymnbook, something about

'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.

And I think it is a true saying; for though I
got over the bad feeling with a great effort, the
sympathy my weakness gave me with other
people never passed off.

I did not go back to Signor Angelo that
evening. I could not; and I made an excuse
when he asked me the next day, and said it was
mother kept me. But, about a week afterwards,
he invited me again, and I went. Yes, I sat
and listened to his story—heard all about
Vittoria Ernstein, how beautiful and clever she was,
and how he loved her: and I tried to take an
interest in her too, and forget myself.

He told me how he had met with her and her
cousin Gertrude in Germany, and described them
both. Vittoria, with her grand, great beauty;
and Gertrude, soft and gentle, like a spring
flower. Then he went on about his plans for
the future; how his improved circumstances
allowed of his marriage; how he had written to
fix Christmas, and waited an answer. I asked
with a sinking heart if he would leave us then,
but he said, "No, Vittoria would be quite satisfied:"
and I felt happier. Only when he kept
watching for the morning post, sitting at the
window, with his eye fixed on the post-office, it
was bitter and hard to bear.

It was Monday morning, just after post-time,
and there had been two letters for Signor
Angelo, with foreign post-marks, which Betsy
had taken up to his room. I was washing in
the back kitchen, with a great fire on, and up
to my elbows in soapsuds, not altogether in a
good humour, when Betsy rushed into the room,
and declared that the foreigneer monsheer had
gone demented.

I gave her a box on the ear as an impudent
hussy, but, for all that, desired an explanation.
"Monsheer was rushing about his room, uttering
loud cries," she said, and she had heard a
heavy sound like the fall of furniture.

I wiped my arms in a great hurry, and rushed
out to listen.

There were strange sounds, as Betsy had
represented; but it was in vain that I knocked at
the door, or tried to enter—the bolt was drawn,
and no one answered—only the sounds quieted,
and I heard a succession or moans.

"Monsieur Angelo—Monsieur Angelo !" I
said, "it's me—it's Patty. Won't you say
what's the matter? Are-you ill ? Oh,
monsieur!"

At last came an answer. "What do you
want? Go away—don't bother."

Later in the afternoon I heard his bolt
withdrawn, and a low voice calling to Betsy, and I
rushed out. I only just caught sight of his
face, very white and careworn, as he drew back
and rebolted the door; but on the landing floor
lay a little note that I seized hastily. It was
directed to Miss Patty, and I popped it into
the bosom of my dress, and went up-stairs to
read it.

"Dear Patty," it said, "would be sure to
sympathise with the extreme agony of a
fellow-creature—one who was sinking in the very
depths of desperation." Then came a very
incoherent bit that I could not understand, and it
went on to tell how Vittoria's father, having
always opposed his daughter's union with the
signor on the score of his want of means, had
latterly so goaded her with entreaties,
commands, and arguments, that in a fit of despair
she had plunged into an immense gulf. Those
were the words of the note, ending with wild
apostrophes, and resolutions for a speedy
reunion. I read and re-read the note in trembling
eagerness. One thing was clear: Vittoria was
dead, and Angelo, in consequence, was bent on
self-destruction; I alone aware of the catastrophe,
and with the power of preventing further
mischief . But how?

I dropped a tear over Vittoria's untimely fate,
and took out my desk. It was in vain to
attempt to speak to him, but I might write.
And I did write. I found a sheet of paper
with the broad black edge I had used while
mourning for my father, and, for the first time,
addressed Angelo by letter. I began by
condolences, and went on to talk of sympathy and
resignation. It took me a long time to do, and I
think I could never have managed at all had it
not been for the packet of letters, labelled
''Condolences" that my mother had received in
her great trouble. I took a nice saying out of
each of these, and strung the bits together by
ands and buts. It was really a beautiful letter
when it was done, and the termination, "Your
sincere sympathiser," looked so nice at the
bottom of the page—so very expressive, but not
too warm.

I folded and sealed the note, carried it down
stairs, slid it under the door, and gave a low tap
to attract his attention. Then, in breathless
anxiety, I waited for further tidings.

They came at last—a low-toned "Miss
Patty"—and I found myself admitted into the
little parlour where poor Angelo was sitting
over the fire, looking the picture of misery.

He took my hand. "Mrs. Patty," he said,
"I thank you for your sympathy.- But I find I
was mistaken in some of the particulars with ,
which I before acquainted you. I have been
re-reading the letters, and see that I jumped to
hasty and erroneous conclusions. Vittoria (he
shuddered at her name) Vittoria is not dead,