Here was all I could require. Her lover had died in all the promise of genius and beauty. His death was simply and solemnly commemorated by a quiet burial in some sylvan solitude. The allusion, in the passage quoted, had revived all the poignancy of his loss, and her tears were evidences of the purity and sincerity of her affection. Although there now appeared no rival to fear, I was aware that love survives death; but as I never had much confidence in woman’s constancy, this did not alarm me. Forgetting my past experience and my vows of celibacy, I devoted myself immediately to this new chimera. On the title page of the book, which had caused such wild fantasies, I perceived the initials—“E. S. C——.” On examining the page more minutely, I found written in various places, “Emma,” which I knew must be the name for one of the initials. All further search proved vain; and I resolved to examine the “traveller’s register” in hope of procuring more exact information. About a month back, were written in a bold, free hand, the names of Col. Robert St. Clair and Sister—at least the surname of Miss St. Clair, and the name in full of her military brother. My next care was to find out their destination. With surprise and gratification, I perceived that it was precisely where I was journeying myself. My plan for an introduction was quickly made up. I would call on Miss St. Clair and restore her the lost book. My remarks on her criticisms would of course be flattering; and she could not avoid entering into a conversation. Common politeness would induce her to ask me to call again. Thus clear seemed the road to happiness! Let me now pursue it. Nothing of interest occurred on my journey to P——. Immediately after my arrival I made inquiries for Colonel St. Clair. There was little difficulty in finding his residence. The purport of my mission induced me to devote more than usual care to my toilet; and as I knocked at the polished and brass-mounted door of Colonel St. Clair’s house, the reflection therefrom satisfied me that I was a very passable personage. I was ushered into the drawing-room. “The Colonel was not at home; but the white lady would be down directly”—so the servant informed me, grinning admiration from ear to ear. Who the “white lady” was, I could not imagine; but her appearance dissipated all suspicion that it might be Miss St. Clair herself. She was apparently a lady of forty, much worn and faded by the cares of life. Her countenance was emaciated and melancholy; but her eyes were still bright and expressive; and her features were not uninteresting. She might once have been beautiful. Her form, though somewhat ghastly, was still symmetrical; and her quiet address and dignified manners proved that she had moved in the best society. After a few preliminary remarks, I entered on the subject which was nearest my heart: