She sent me a few lines—a little letter—with
them, but I did not receive it at the time—
not until long, long afterwards. Though the
things of which I speak are long past, though
the paper is yellow with age, and the words
traced in her pretty girlish hand are illegible,
I know them by heart.

"'Dearest, I shall never write to you
again. I send you back your presents, and,
what is much harder, your letters. Your
mother and uncle are quite right. I never
thought I was fit to be your wife. I wish
you very, very happy. Do not think I blame
you at all. God bless you. Perhaps I ought
not to pray for you, but I cannot help it yet;
and I do not think my prayers can do you
harm. You know how dearly I loved you;
but I do not love you now, since it would be
your ruin. Oh! if I must become very
wicked, if I must grow proud and sinful, still
pray for me, you, who are so good, who are to
live a pure and holy life, your prayers will be
heard; and it cannot do you harm to pray
for me,—VIOLET ELDER.

"' P. S.—I hope you will marry your
cousin, and that you will be happy.'

"I do not think my mother, fertile as she
was in expedients, could have succeeded in
keeping me away from Violet, but for my
father's continued and serious illness. As it
was, I wrote again and again to Violet, and,
as I received no answer, no explanation of the
return of my letters, I was in a continual
state of agitation. An idea of the truth—
that my letters were detained—sometimes
flashed across my mind; but I found it hard
to believe that my mother would have recourse
to such means. At rare intervals I felt
displeasure against Violet. At length, my father
getting no better, but rather worse, the
doctors ordered him to a warmer climate. I
am not sure that my mother did not suggest
the remedy; she was certainly very eager in
adopting it.

"While we were in London on our way to
the Continent, I insisted on going to
Warwick. My mother made no difficulty; she
was probably aware of the inutility of my
visit.

"When I reached the lodgings which the
Elders had occupied I found them empty,
the theatre was closed, all the company were
dispersed. The keeper of the lodgings
informed me that Violet had been very ill;
that she was gone to Scotland—she
believed, to fulfil an engagement. We were to
sail for Italy on the morrow. To follow
her was impossible, and the woman could
give me no clue to her address. It was even
a comfort to know that Violet had been ill;
that might be the reason of my letters
remaining unanswered. Her mother, too,
would probably be offended at the refusal of
my parents to sanction our engagement.
Violet had been very ill, the landlady said,
for three weeks. She had had a fever,
and they had cut off nearly all her beautiful
hair. She used to cry out and talk wildly
when she was ill; but her mother nursed
her herself, and allowed no one else to go
into the room. She was almost well before
she went away. She used to go out in a
carriage, and she revived and smiled again, too;
but, somehow, there seemed a weight on her
spirits: it wasn't her old smile—but then she
had been very ill.

"Perhaps the woman had connected Violet's
illness with me. Women have an intuitive
perception of such matters. At first she
was very cold and little disposed to be
communicative. But I suppose my own
countenance bore some trace of the suffering I
had undergone. Perhaps she saw in me
something that moved her compassion; be that as
it may, she threw off the constraint she had at
first put upon herself, told me many touching
details of Violet's weakness, and permitted
me to visit the room where I had so often sat
with her. She also gave me a braid of the
hair which had been cut off; how she came
to have it I don't know; I have sometimes
hoped it might have been left with her for
me.

"I accompanied my parents to Italy with
reassured spirits. Violet loved me, and my
heart was strong within me. I would make
the best use of my time while I was abroad,
and if on our return my mother still refused
her consent, I would be able to support my
wife by my exertions. Time and distance
seemed as nothing. A little year and Violet
would be mine. But the year lengthened into
two. My father slowly declined; he pined to
see home again, and we set out on our journey.
But he was never more to set his foot
on English ground: he died at Naples, and
there he lies buried.

"When my mother had a little recovered
from the shock, she, my sister and I set out
on our return. Perhaps in that saddened
state of her feelings she might have softened
towards Violet, but it was now too late.

"During our stay in Italy I had heard of
Violet only in her public character. I had
heard of her appearance in London, and of
her triumph. My college friend, Topham,
wrote me accounts of her. He told me she
was surrounded by admirers, among whom
there were more than one of rank and
station who aspired to her hand; but he said
that she was grown very haughty; more
beautiful than ever—unquestionably more
beautiful, but strangely proud, disdainful, and
wilful. He confessed that she had treated
him with marked and with what he considered
supercilious coldness. Topham was by no
means the person to whom I could confide
the secret of my affection. He belonged to
the class of young men who have no depth of
feeling themselves, and whose system of
honour has no reference to anything beyond
the opinion of the narrow circle in which
they move. I imagined that Violet knew
the strength and constancy of my love,