"'I share your hope,' he said, with one of his strange laughs,' by the neck till he is dead. The more the merrier. To continue our imaginings. Between the young lady and her lover, as I said, there's a secret as would be bad for him if it was made public--as might, indeed, be the ruin of him. This secret may be revealed in the correspondence as passed between them. The chances are that those letters are not destroyed. Men are so indiscreet! Why, they often forgit there's a to-morrer. The young lady is described as being beautiful. More's the pity. Beauty's a snare. If ever I marry--which ain't likely, Mrs. Lemon--I'll marry a fright. Beautiful as the young lady is, her lover wishes to git rid of her. Perhaps he's tired of her; perhaps he's got another fancy; perhaps he's seen her twin sister, and is smit with her. There's any number of perhapses to fit the case. But the poor girl, having been brought to shame----' "'Is that in the paper?' I asked, interrupting him. "'No,' he answered, 'but it may be. It is always so with those girls; there's hardly a pin to choose between 'em. Naturally, she won't consent to let him get rid of her--won't consent to release him--won't consent to let him go free. They quarrel, and make it up. They quarrel agin, and make it up agin. Days, weeks go by, till yesterday comes, and she is to meet him at night. She's got a mother, she's got a father; they set together, and she goes to bed early. She's got a headache, she says, and so, "Good-night, mother; good-night, father;" a kiss for each of 'em; and there's a end of kisses and good-nights. The last page of her little book of life is reached. There's a lot in that scene to make a body think--it's full of pictures of the past. Think of all the days of childhood wasted; think of all the love, laughter, hopes, joys--wasted; flowers, ribbons, fancies, dreams--wasted; all that good men say is sweetest in life, and that's played its part for so many, many years--all wasted. Better to have been wicked at once, better to have been sinful and deceitful all through--think you not so? "Good-night, mother; good-night, father," and so--to bed? No. To go up to her little room and lock the door, to dress herself in her best clothes, to make herself still more beautiful--for that, you see, may melt her lover's heart--to put the bunch of white daisies in her belt, to wait till the house is quiet--so quiet, so quiet!--and then to steal out softly, softly! She stops at mother's door and listens. Not a sound. Mother and father sleep in peace. Remembrances of the past come to her in the dark, and she cries a little, very quietly. Then she departs. It is done. From that home she is gone for ever, and she is walking to her grave! The park is still and quiet at that hour of the night; excep for a few hungry wretches who prowl or sleep, the girl and the man have it all to themselves. First--love passages. Twelve o'clock. They stop and listen to the tolling of the bell--they all do that.