“So the young always say when disappointment meets them. Your pulse is quick—you are feverish; but I think these symptoms will pass away. A winter in a warm climate I shall recommend to Mr. Herbert as the best thing for you; and I hope to see you again quite restored.” “In a warm climate? What country will you recommend?” she asked abruptly. “The South of France—or Italy.” “Italy! Oh, let it be Italy! I could die contented there; but I will not consent to go. I dare not consent to be united to Mr. Herbert unless you will assure me that the last hope of life is past.” The doctor looked at her as if doubting her sanity. “You are young to lie down in the grave with resignation. There is some mystery here, my young friend, which is wearing your life gradually away. Can you not confide in me? I may be able to serve you.” “Only in telling me the truth, and in writing a few lines for me to one who is far away—not dreaming of the blow that is about to fall on him. Poor Arthur! My grief is now more for him than for myself. You are a friend of Mr. Mervin’s, Doctor. Write to him, and inform him of my marriage; and tell him that my last promise was inviolate. I was his, so long as a hope in life remained. You may tell him that there was no escape from this loveless marriage, and the sacrifice of life itself will test the truth of my affection for him. _Now_ will you order me to Italy? that I may die amid the bland airs and lovely scenes which surround him. The consciousness that I am in the same land, will gild the remnant of my waning life.” The physician was deeply touched. He saw that in her face which spoke to his heart of her rapidly approaching fate, and his voice faltered as he replied, “You shall go to Italy—and I will fulfill your request. Mervin shall be apprised in the gentlest manner of all you desire. Would that I could serve or save you, but the wound lies too deep for my skill to reach.” She smiled faintly. “It is a consolation to know that by the sacrifice of the frail remnant of my existence, I can secure to my young sister—to my parents, the enjoyment of a competence at least. Mr. Herbert has promised me that the wealth bequeathed to me by his father, on the condition that I became his bride, shall be secured to my sister, encumbered with an annuity to my parents. You probably know that the affairs of my father are inextricably involved, and this will be their only dependence; but, doctor, I have made one proviso, to screen my sweet Ellen from the misery that has been my portion. She is to enjoy the absolute right of choosing her partner for life herself.” “These,” she continued, taking the parcel from the table, “are _his_ letters. They are few—but very—very precious. Take them—destroy them—I cannot do it—and I would not have them returned to him. It would be too bitter to have the memorials of wasted affection thrown back on the heart from which they emanated.” * * * * *