"Deserted, Florry!" cried he, as the tears
stood in his eyes.

"Well, I don't mean deserted. There is no
desertion on either side. It is a perfectly
amicable arrangement of two people who are not
disposed to travel the same road. I don't want
to imply that any more blame attaches to you
than to me"

"How can any attach to me at all?" cried he.

"Oh then, if you wish it, I take the whole of it."

"Shall I speak to your aunt, Miss Walter, or
will you?"

"It does not signify much which of us is the
first to acquaint her. Perhaps, however, it would
come with more propriety from you. I think I
see her yonder near the cypress–trees, and I'm
sure you'll be glad to have it over. Wait one
moment, this ring——" as she endeavoured to draw
a small ruby ring from her finger, Loyd saw the
turquoise which she wore on the other hand—
"this ring," said she, in some confusion, "is
yours."

"Not this one," said he, sternly, as he pointed
to the other.

"No, the ruby," said she, with an easy smile
"It was getting to hurt my finger."

"I hope you may wear the other more easily,"
said he, with a bitter laugh.

"Thank you," said she, with a curtsey, and
then turned away, and walked towards the house.

After Loyd had proceeded a few steps to
overtake Miss Grainger, he stopped, and hastened
back to the villa. Such an explanation as he
must make could, he felt, be only done by a
letter. He could not, besides, face the questioning
and cross–questioning the old lady would
submit him to, nor endure the misery of
recalling, at her bidding, each stage of their sad
quarrel. A letter, therefore, he would write,
and then leave the villa for ever, and without a
farewell to any. He knew this was not a
gracious way to treat those who had been
uniformly affectionate and kind—who had been
to him like dear sisters—but he dreaded a
possible meeting. He could not answer for
himself, either, as to what charges he might be led
to make against Florence, or what weakness of
character he might exhibit in the midst of his
affliction. "I will simply narrate so much as
will show that we have agreed to separate, and
are never to meet more," muttered he.
"Florence may tell as much more as she likes, and
give what version of me she pleases. It matters
little now how or what they think of one whose
heart is already in the grave." And thus saying,
he gained his room, and, locking the door, began
to write. Deeply occupied in his task, which
he found so difficult that several half–scrawled
sheets already littered the table before him, he
never felt the time as it passed. It was already
midnight before he was aware of it, and still his
letter was not finished. It was so hard to say
enough and not too much; so hard to justify
himself in any degree and yet spare her, against
whom he would not use one word of reproach;
so hard to confess the misery that he felt, and
yet not seem abject in the very avowal.

Not one of his attempts had satisfied him.
Some were too lengthy, some too curt and
brief, some read cold, stern, and forbidding;
others seemed like half entreaties for a more
merciful judgment; in fact, he was but writing
down each passing emotion of his mind, and
recording the varying passions that swayed him.

As he sat thus, puzzled and embarrassed, he
sprung up from his chair with terror at a cry
that seemed to fill the room, and make the
very air vibrate around him. It was a shriek
as of one in the maddest agony, and lasted for
some seconds. He thought it came from the
lake, and he flung open his window and listened,
but all was calm and still, the very faintest night
air was astir, and not even the leaves moved.
He then opened his door, and crept stealthily
out upon the corridor; but all was quiet within
the house. Noiselessly he walked to the head
of the stairs, and listened; but not a sound nor
a stir was to be heard. He went back to his
room, agitated and excited. He had read of
those conditions of cerebral excitement when
the nerves of sense present impressions which
have no existence in fact, and the sufferers fancy
that they have seen sights, or heard sounds,
which had no reality.

He thought he could measure the agitation
that distressed him by this disturbance of the
brain, and he bathed his temples with cold
water, and sat down at the open window to
try to regain calm and self–possession. For a
while the speculation on this strange problem
occupied him, and he wandered on in thought to
ask himself which of the events of life should
be assumed as real, and which mere self–delusions.
"If, for instance," thought he, "I could believe
that this dreadful scene with Florence never
occurred, that it was a mere vision conjured up
by my own gloomy forebodings, and my sorrow
at our approaching separation—what ecstasy
would be mine. What is there," asked he
of himself aloud, "to show or prove that we
have parted? What evidence have I of one
word that may or may not have passed between
us, that would not apply to that wild scream that
so lately chilled my very blood, and which I now
know was a mere trick of imagination?" As he
spoke, he turned to the table, and there lay the
proof that he challenged before him. There,
beside his half–written letter, stood the ring he
bad given her, and which she had just given
back to him. The revulsion was very painful,
and the tears, which had not come before, now
rolled heavily down his cheeks. He took up
the ring and raised it to his lips, but laid it
down without kissing it. These sent–back gifts
are very sad things; they do not bury the
memory of the loved one who wore them.
Like the flower that fell from her hair, they
bear other memories. They tell of blighted
hopes, of broken vows, of a whole life's plan
torn, scattered, and given to the winds. Their
odour is not of love; they smell of the rank
grave, whither our hearts are hastening. He
sat gazing moodily at this ring—it was the story
of his life. He remembered the hour and the