Her Lieutenant-General Sir Victor and all the idols of her vanity shattered about her, Sybilla heard with renewed dismay of Godwin’s disappearance. It was another stroke of the two-edged sword; for she believed that, with the intention of screening her from justice, he had crawled away to die in some obscurity; and had it not been for the consequent excitement, the daily expectation of hearing of his death, the wretched wife must have sunk under the agonies of her remorse. But, when a few weeks were passed came Jessy with news of his life instead--with grief and consolation, and not a word of reproach. Long and painful was the interview between these two women; and, soon after they parted, the high-strung nerves of Sybilla gave way, and she was mercifully laid upon a bed of sickness. But there was a secret between them now, betwixt the innocent and the guilty, that rendered separation impossible; and before Sybilla rose, a repentant woman, they were knit in close bonds of dependence and support. Five years have now elapsed; and now and then, perhaps this very day, these two strange friends bend their still young and beautiful heads together in secret over some little piece of news--from Paris--Vienna--St. Petersburgh. For, as the best outlet of never-resting emotions, Godwin had turned himself to music, had spent whole nights in pouring from the strings of his violin songs of his experience. Till at last he began to grow famous; and is now known to the cognoscenti by a new name--which, after all, is only Jessy’s name Italianized--as a musician full of ungovernable fire and pathos, as a wild, erratic, fast-consuming genius, careless at once of emolument and praise. And so, suddenly appearing here and there, he still pours music into ears that understand not the bitter secret of its power. * * * * * =TO MY CIGAR.= =BY CHARLES ALBERT JANVIER.= Oh! bright cigar! I love thy wreaths of smoke so dimly curling, I love thy murky cloud above me whirling, While like a star Amid the smoke thy brilliant tip is shining, And bids me cast all care and repining From me afar. Companion dear! When weary of this world, its empty pleasure, Its ceaseless toil, its cares without a measure, Its doubt and fear, Then Fancy paints upon thy bright cloud waving The far-off friends and scenes my heart is craving, And brings them near.