letter, in which I hinted my suspicions of her
danger, and entreated her to confide all
to me.

Her reply was longer coming this time.
Meanwhile the horrible brother haunted me;
I compared him to that furious and unreasonable
genii, who would hear no explanation from
the unfortunate merchant, who, peacefully
eating his meal by the wayside, and flinging
his date stones over his shoulder, had
unintentionally knocked out his miserable one
eye. There was cunning, malignity, and
injustice, and even a consciousness of
supernatural power, all to be discerned in that
hideous countenance, that I had never
forgotten since the moment when it suddenly
appeared, set in the frame of the porter's doorway.
I knew he had not walked up the stairs
when he found me at the door: I must have
heard him if he had. He was probably at a few
thousands of leagues distance, engaged in some
nefarious business; when knowing by some
means that I was looking through his
keyhole, he vanished, and in a moment reappeared
behind me on the landing. This might
naturally have led me to suspect that his sister
was some wrinkled old hag, whom his magic
art made beautiful, in whatever eyes he
pleased; but it did not. And, herein, I
cannot blame myself, consistently with my
philosophy of illusions. For I hold that
Titania was blessed even in her love for
Bottom, the weaver, and was not at all to be
pitied until the spell was broken.

This was the third letter that I received
from Miss La Roche:—

"SIR,—I am much grieved that you should
have suffered from my brother's violence on
my account. How could you be so mad as
to enter the house, after I had told you
the danger? My brother is very unreasonable,
but you must be patient with him,
and forgive him, as I do, for my sake. I
will explain to you everything as I might
have done at first, if I had foreseen this
misfortune. My brother, I assure you again,
bears no resemblance to the monster which
your imagination has pictured him. His
personal defects, I am sure, do not
prejudice you against him; and his slight
failings, in other respects, I think you
will forgive when you know him better.
Listen, then, to the simple explanation of the
mystery which has so troubled you. Five
years ago, my brother was a chymist; he
served the dyers with ingredients for dyeing.
One day he heard that Jacob Garcia, a
Spaniard, had discovered a new scarlet of
more brilliancy than had hitherto been known,
and that he had sold his secret for a million
of francs. My brother's mind was captivated,
and he began to experimentalise for further
improvements. The pursuit became a
passion; he gave up his business and came to
Rouen—our native city—to continue his
experiments in secret. Drawing near (as he
assures me) to the attainment of his object,
he is become, after five years' research, more
and more anxious lest his secret should be
stolen from him. For this reason he never
allows any stranger to enter here. His
apparatus and materials are always exposed,
and the slightest trace, he imagines, might
afford a clue to his mystery. I have told him
that he exaggerates the danger, but his
anxiety only increases. It has become almost
a mania; and his eccentric and irritable
nature, I feel, will not be improved until his
labours are ended.

"This, sir, is why I entreat you, at present,
to be contented with my shadow.

"MARIE STUART LA ROCHE."

Here was a reasonable explanation. Why,
of course, I might have guessed all this, but
for an unfortunate propensity to imagine
marvels. How could I sufficiently apologise
to this noble and disinterested girl, for my
absurd suspicions. Her wise and gentle tone,
her devotedness to her brother, her compassion
for failings—that highest proof of a
thoughtful mind—made me ashamed of my
own weakness. I wrote to her again
promising to wait patiently, and excusing my
folly on the plea of my anxiety for her
welfare; and assuring her that since her
explanation, I felt the highest respect and esteem
for her brother. I confess, however, that my
antipathy for him was not diminished, and
that if I happened to go out late, I had no
desire whatever to meet him in our lonely
street.

My labours in the library were now ended,
and nothing but my shadowy correspondent
retained me in Rouen. One Sunday I resolved
again to watch for her in the Cathedral,
concealing myself as before. She came as
usual, and wore chocolate boots again. Standing
behind a pillar, I saw her once more go
out by the baize-covered door. When I thought
that she had time enough to disappear,
I went out also. But, as I stood in the porch
again, I saw her, to my astonishment, standing
with a stranger, talking, in the very centre
of the market-place! Could it be possible
that this story of her brother's pursuits was
but an ingenious fiction intended to deceive
me, and prevent me for some purpose
discovering that she had another lover? I could
not believe that. It must be some relative. She
had said that they were natives of Rouen;
they had of course connections in the city.

She took his arm, and they walked away
together, while I followed them at a distance,
determined to note any further indications of
the nature of their acquaintance. Keeping
close in the shadow of the houses, in a narrow
lane, I saw the stranger place his arm round
her waist, which she suffered without resisting,
and they walked on thus till they came to the
street in which she lived. There they stopped,
as if deeming it imprudent to go further
together, and stood again talking for some
time at the corner of the lane. At last I saw