The countenance of the old man grew more and more cheerful as he talked with the honest pastor and his lovely daughter. But suddenly he started up, grasped the pastor’s shoulder with trembling hands, and stammered—“I am ill—I must go home.” Then, refusing their offers of assistance, he promised to meet them on the same spot the next day, and was quickly lost in the crowd. The pastor and his daughter returned to their lodgings, thinking and speaking of nothing but the strange old man. “We sent him away,” cried the landlady, as she met them at the garden-gate, “he has been here twice; quite pale with terror, but it is good for him.” “Who?” asked the father. “Why the gambler, to be sure.” And poor Theodora shrunk into a dark corner of the room. Her father inquired his name and direction of the landlady, and immediately inclosed the costly ring to him in a note which ran thus: “Sir—Commissioned by my daughter, Theodora, and with her full countenance, I return to you this ring, of which we have as little need as the honor of your society.” The next day they hoped again to meet the old man, but he was no where to be found, and even their gossiping landlady knew nothing of him—so they were obliged to give up all hope of seeing him again. Early on the following morning they set out for their dear home, and as the carriage drove through the avenue of trees before the house, and Theodora in vain endeavored to conceal her fast falling tears, which came so fast at the remembrance of the happiness now fled forever, some one behind them panted out— “Hold—for Heaven’s sake, stop!” “Robert!” cried Theodora, and sunk back, almost fainting. “Drive on,” said her father; and the driver cracked his whip, and the light carriage flew swiftly from its pursuer, whose exclamations were soon lost in the distance. But just as they reached the extreme end of the village, a dashing vehicle from the opposite direction rattled by. Heavens! there on the back seat, between the two bold, gaudy ladies, sat—the gambler. As the lightning illumines the dark night, did the truth flash upon Theodora’s mind. The faithful lover who had pursued her carriage, and from whom she had so unrelentingly fled, could not be identical with the man whom they had just seen apparently returning from some nightly revel. The resemblance was indeed wonderful, but it was only a resemblance. “Oh, Robert, Robert!” sobbed the unhappy girl, “how wretched I am.” “Trust in God, dear child,” said her father; “all is for the best. His ways are not as our ways.” “Ah! all hope has gone, and I—I alone am guilty!”