“Nearly twenty-three years ago I met with the saddest loss that ever falls to the lot of woman—the loss of a love that would have brightened all my future life. From my early girlhood I had an affection for my own cousin, and was beloved in return by him. As we grew older that affection increased, until at the age of eighteen I was betrothed to him. Soon after, he went to sea, hoping on his return to be able to make me his wife. He had a share in a trading-vessel, and, if they made a successful voyage, he hoped to realize a handsome sum, which, with what he already had, would enable him to support a wife. Three months later came the news of the loss of the vessel, and his name was among the list of those who perished. Our engagement had been a secret, and so it was only in secret that I could mourn. In the presence of others, of course, I must appear the same as usual, and so, to hide the grief that was burning my heart to ashes, I assumed a reckless gayety that deceived every one. About this time a stranger appeared in our circle. He was wealthy, fascinating, and very handsome. He appeared attracted by my beauty, as my friends were pleased to term my good looks, and paid me much attention. My family were pleased with him, I liked him, and when he offered me marriage I accepted him, thinking that perhaps, under new excitement and change of scene and country, I might find some balm for my wounded heart. We were married, and spent several months in traveling, and then contrary to my expectations my husband preferred to remain indefinitely in Paris, and we set up a home of our own in the suburbs of the city. Before the end of a year a little child was given to us—a blue-eyed, golden-haired daughter, whom we both loved with almost idolatrous affection, and it seemed as if Heaven had at last sent healing to my sore spirit, for I became calmly and quietly happy; my acute grief had passed, and, though my deepest affection was in the ocean grave of my sailor lover, yet I looked forward to a future of quiet happiness with the new ties that bound me to life. “My baby—Editha we had named her—was only three months of age, when one day, as my husband and I were watching her as she lay crowing and laughing in her cradle, the door behind us opened and some one entered the room. We both turned, and saw a form gaunt and trembling, a face pale and wasted, but dearer than life to me. It was Louis Villemain, my lost lover, whom I believed lying cold in death at the bottom of the sea.