“She had not been gone an hour when doesn't the Devil put it into _his_ head to send me a long, affectionate letter, and in the postscript he invited himself to supper the same afternoon. Then I got up and dried my eyes, and I seemed to turn into stone with resolution. 'Come!' I said, 'but don't think you shall ever go back to her. Your troubles and mine shall end to-night.'” “Why, Eve, you turn pale with thinking of it. I fear you have had worse thoughts pass through your mind than any man is worth.” “David, your blood was in my veins, and mine is in yours. “If I didn't think so! The Lord deliver us from temptation! We don't know ourselves nor those we love.” “He had driven me mad.” “Mad, indeed. What! had you the heart to see the man bleed to death--the man you had loved--you, my little gentle Eve?” “Oh no, no; no blood!” said Eve, with a shudder. “Laudanum!” “Good God!” “Oh, I see your thought. No, I was not like the men in the newspapers, that kill the poor woman with a sure hand, and then give themselves a scratch. It was to be one spoonful for him, but two for me. I can't dwell on it” (and she hid her face in her hands); “it is too terrible to remember how far I was misled. Who, think you, saved us both?” David could not guess. “A little angel--my good angel, that came home from sea that very afternoon. When I saw your curly head, and your sweet, sunburned face come in at the door, guess if I thought of putting death in the pot after that? Ah! the love of our own flesh and blood, that is the love--God and good angels can smile on it.” “Yes; but go on,” said David, impatiently. “It is ended, David. They say a woman's heart is a riddle, and perhaps you will think so when I tell you that when he had brought me down to this, and hadn't died for it, I turned as cold as ice to him that minute, once and forever. I looked back at the precipice, and I hated him. Ay, from that evening he was like the black dog to my eye. I used to slip anywhere to hide out of his way--just as you did out of mine but now.” “Can't you forget that? Well, to be sure. Well?” “So then (now you may learn what these skim-milk cheeses are made of), when he found he was my aversion, he fell in love with me again as hot as ever; tried all he could think of to win me back; wrote a letter every day; came to me every other day; and when he saw it was all over for good between us he cried and bellowed till my hate all went, and scorn came in its place. Next time we met he played quite another part--the calm, heart-broken Christian; gave me his blessing; went down on his knees, and prayed a beautiful prayer, that took me off my guard and made me almost respect him; then went away, and quietly married the girl with money; and six months after wrote to me he was miserable, dated from the vicarage her parents had got him.” “Now, you know, if he wasn't a parson, d--n me if I'd turn in to-night till I'd rope's-ended that lubber!”