He drew writing materials before him and penned the following: MY BROKEN IDOL--I hardly know whether I am writing to a creature of my dreams, or to one who is possessed of neither heart nor soul! Oh, Elaine, your last letter has slain every hope that life held so dear! Better had you pressed to my lips the poison cup--better to have sheathed a dagger in my heart than rend it to atoms and leave the body living. I give you your freedom. I am leaving Annesley Park forever. You will never see or hear of me again. I shall take particular care of that. Your bondmaster sets you free! Think of me kindly, if you can--if you ever trouble to think of me at all--and believe that I have none but the most sincere wishes for your future welfare. HAROLD ANNESLEY. “This shall be posted to-morrow,” he decided. “I will leave it in the hands of Stimson. When she reads it let me be far away!” Just then the mournful strains of an old harmonium fell upon his ears, and he started up in surprise, to find that a couple of musicians had found their way into the park, and were playing almost under his window. He was about to toss them some silver and send them away, when his eyes fell upon a girl of rare beauty, who was turning over some music and preparing to sing. She was attired in the picturesque costume affected by the peasant class of Italy, and in the rich coils of her black hair was a bunch of crimson flowers. Presently she opened her ruby lips and warbled softly: “Away, away! You’re all the same-- A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng! Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame To think I’ve been your slave so long! “Slow to be warned, and quick to prove, From folly kind and cunning loth; Too cold for bliss, too weak for love, Yet feigning all that’s best in both. “Still panting o’er a crowd to reign, More joy it gives to woman’s breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain Than one true manly lover blest. “Away, away! Your smile’s a curse! Oh, blot me from the roll of men, Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse, Before I love such things again.” Sir Harold listened like one who was charmed. Then he opened the window and dropped a gold coin into the girl’s brown palm. “Thank you, kind signor!” she said, in perfect English. “Shall I sing to you again?” “Yes, sing me that song once more. The words appeal to me strongly, and the air is admirably adapted to your sweet voice,” cried Sir Harold. The girl gazed at him wonderingly for a moment; then a soft light stole into her beautiful, dark eyes, and she sang to him again, a world of passion in her liquid notes: “Away, away! Your smile’s a curse! Oh, blot me from the roll of men, Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse, Before I love such things again.”