"One summer--years ago," he said, "I went to the city of New Orleans. I went to bring thence, with me, a dear friend--her who was to have been my wife." The deep voice trembled, and paused. Faith could not look up, her breath came quickly, and the tears were all but ready. "She had been there, through the winter and spring, with her father, who, save myself, was the only near friend she had in all the world. "The business which took him there detained him until later in the season than Northerners are accustomed to feel safe in staying. And still, important affairs hindered his departure. "He wrote to me, that, for himself, he must risk a residence there for some weeks yet; but that his daughter must be placed in safety. There was every indication of a sickly summer. She knew nothing of his writing, and he feared would hardly consent to leave him. But, if I came, she would yield to me. Our marriage might take place there, and I could bring her home. Without her, he said, he could more quickly dispatch what remained for him to do; and I must persuade her of this, and that it was for the safety of all that she should so fulfill the promise which was to have been at this time redeemed, had their earlier return been possible. "In the New Orleans papers that came by the same mail, were paragraphs of deadly significance. The very cautiousness with which they were worded weighted them the more. "Miss Faith! my friend! in that city of pestilence, was my life! Night and day I journeyed, till I reached the place. I found the address which had been sent me--there were only strangers there! Mr. Waldo had been, but the very day before, seized with the fatal disease, and removed to a fever hospital. Miriam had gone with him--into plague and death! "Was I wrong, child? Could I have helped it? I followed. Ah! God lets strange woes into this world of His! I cannot tell you, if I would, what I saw there! Pestilence--death--corruption! "In the midst of all, among the gentle sisters of charity, I found a New England woman--a nurse--her whom I met yesterday. She came to me on my inquiry for Mr. Waldo. He was dead. Miriam had already sickened--was past hope. I could not see her. It was against the rule. She would not know me. "I only remember that I refused to be sent away. I think my brain reeled with the weariness of sleepless nights and horror of the shock. "I cannot dwell upon the story. It was ended quickly. When I struggled back, painfully, to life, from the disease that struck me down, there were strange faces round me, and none could even tell me of her last hours. The nurse--Miss Sampson--had been smitten--was dying. "They sent me to a hospital for convalescents. Weeks after, I came out, feeble and hopeless, into my lonely life! "Since then, God, who had taken from me the object I had set for myself, has filled its room with His own work. And, doing it, He has not denied me to find many a chastened joy.