darkened by despair; but is there not something heavenly in his look? Did not the air become more pure, more brilliant, as he approached? You, my friend, have seen him with me, have witnessed his kind cares, and the respect with which he inspired others for the woman of his choice. How can I live without him? Pardon my ingratitude: ought I thus to requite thy disinterested constancy? But I am no longer worthy any blessing; and might pass for insane, had I not still the miserable consciousness of mine own madness. Farewell, then--yes, farewell!" CHAPTER III. How pitiable is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits a great imprudence for a man whose love she knows inferior to her own! She has but herself to be her support. If she has risked repose and character to do some signal service for her idol, she may be envied. Sweet is the self-devotion that braves all danger to save a life that is dear to us, or solace the distress which rends a heart responsive to our own. But thus to travel unknown lands, to arrive without being expected, to blush before the one beloved, for the unasked proof thus given of his power--painful degradation! What would it be if we thus involved the happiness of others, and outraged our duty to more sacred bonds? Corinne was free. She sacrificed but her own peace and glory. Her conduct was irrational, indeed, but it could overcloud no destiny save hers.[1] On landing in England, Corinne learned from the papers that Lord Nevil's departure was still delayed. She saw no society in London except the family of a banker, to whom she had been recommended _under a false name_. He was interested in her at first sight, and enjoined his wife and daughter to pay her all the attentions in their power. She fell dangerously ill, and, for a fortnight, her new friends watched over her with the most tender care. She heard that Lord Nevil was in Scotland, but must shortly rejoin his regiment in London. She knew not how to announce herself, as she had not written to him respecting her intentions--indeed, Oswald had not received a letter from her for three months. He mentally accused her of infidelity, as if he had any right to complain. On his return to town, he went first to his agents, where he hoped to find letters from Italy: there were none; and, as he was musing over this silence, he encountered Mr. Edgarmond, who asked him for news of Corinne. "I hear nothing of her," he replied, irritably.--"That I can easily understand," added Edgarmond: "these Italians always forget a foreigner, once out of sight; one ought never to heed it; they would be too delightful if they united constancy with genius: it is but fair that our own women should have some advantage!" He squeezed Oswald's hand as he said this, and took leave, as he was just starting for Wales; but his few words had pierced their hearer's heart.--"I am wrong," he said, "to wish she should regret me, since I cannot constitute her happiness; but so soon to forget! This blights