I could not imagine what had produced such a change in this lady’s manner towards me, unless she had been told of my humble occupation, and that it had mortified her vanity to receive attention from one who might be considered as a journeyman. From the first evening of my meeting the fair creature to whom I had so unresistingly yielded up my heart, I made her acquainted with my actual situation, my prospects and my hopes. It seemed necessarily interwoven in the theme that I was discussing; for I spoke of the difficulties I had to encounter, in consequence of which knowledge came to me slowly; contrasting it with the facilities which were now in my power. Neither she nor I dreamed that high birth or fortune were at all necessary to an intercourse so simple, so unexacting as ours. She redoubled the kindness of her usual manner on seeing that I was a little hurt by her friend’s coolness; but she little knew the pain I suffered on hearing that she was not to be at the last chemical lecture—her uncle was in town, and they were to return home on that day. It came like a death knell to my heart. What, was she to go and not be informed of the tender and enduring love I bore her! Was I never to see her; to hear that voice again! Was this to be the last interview! I could not bear it. I took her note book, tremblingly, from her hand, and wrote as follows— “You have pierced my heart with grief. You are to leave the city, and I am to see you no more. My whole soul is absorbed in one feeling; and that is, love for you; and now that you are going from me, existence will be a burden. I ask you not to love me in return; that seems impossible. I can never hope to create a passion such as I now feel for you; such as I felt from the moment I first heard your voice. But deign to think of me—no, I cannot give up the thought of calling you mine—at some future day, when fortune has been propitious; or should some evil overtake you, remember me. I must hasten from your presence, for I am unfit to remain here; but if, on reading this, you can feel compassion for my hopeless love, let these few lines remain; but if you have no pity to offer me, tear them out and put them in my hand as you leave the house. I shall be there to receive my doom; but be merciful.” After having written this, in great agony of mind, I turned to her, and our eyes met. She saw that I was uncommonly agitated, and her concern for me prevented her speaking. I bent close to her ear and said, read this immediately—pointing to the page—and remember that my life depends on what you do. I hurried from her, and walked up and down the narrow street until the lecture was over; which, to my fevered apprehensions, seemed never to have an end.