"What can my poor Lizzie know of the heartlessness and cruelty of the world? What can she know of the falseness of fair words, and of the base thoughts that a smiling face can cover? O Felix, I have felt it! I know what it is; I have suffered from it cruelly. She was going to move into a nice house, she says in her letter. What do these words mean? I tortured myself with putting meanings to them. It was impossible for me to get to London yesterday, and I had to wait until this morning. O, what a weary night I passed, Felix--what a weary, weary night! I lay in the dark, and the tick of the old clock in the passage almost maddened me, it was so slow. I did not have a moment's sleep--you can see that in my face. I must have dressed myself at least half a dozen times. How I prayed for the morning to come! Of all the nights of agony I have passed--and I have had many, Felix; my life has been hard and cold and bitter--that was the worst, and the most unhappy!" She paused for a moment after this lament. "Bitter as my life has been, I have borne it patiently, uncomplainingly, as long as I was sure that Lizzie was well and happy. There was my comfort; there is now my suffering. O, Felix, what pain there is in love--what pain, what pain!" Felix recalled her to herself by a gentle touch of his hand. "I know, Felix, I know; I cannot help it. I have such a weary pain here." "Rest a little," he said, "before you proceed." But she continued. "The morning came at last, thank God--it came at last! And then again I had to wait until the train left Stapleton. I arrived in London before ten o'clock, and went straight to the house where Lizzie lodged. I saw the landlady. She told me that Lizzie had left, and that another lodger of hers had also left at the same time. This other lodger was an old man, she said, and she did think it a little strange that they should both have given warning at the same time. Did she know where Lizzie had gone to? I asked. No, she did not know. I was turning away, when I thought of the old man. Did she know where he was gone to? No, she didn't know the number of the house, nor the street; but a few days ago the old man had let drop a word or two, which led her to suppose he was going to live near a certain place about four miles from London. I thought, if I could find this old man, he might be able to tell me where Lizzie was. I arrived in the locality; I rode there in a cab. But it seemed to me that I might as well have been in a wilderness for all the clue I could obtain as to where the old man lived. As I was searching and inquiring, with such little success that I became sick and faint, I suddenly saw a figure a long way before me. I knew it immediately--I should have known it among a thousand. It was Lizzie. But she was not alone. A gentleman was with her, and I did not wish to make my girl angry by speaking to her in the presence of a stranger. I followed them. They seemed to be very happy, and talked