‘My Darling,—I am inexpressibly grieved to hear of your weak health. I shall come over again directly I can get away from my uncle, and will, at any risk, bring Lucille with me. At this present writing it is absolutely impossible for me to get away. My uncle is breaking fast, and I much fear the G. Spaldings are gaining ground. The senior wrangler is going to make a great marriage; in fact, the very match which my uncle tried to force upon me. This is a blow—for the old man is warmly attached to the young lady in question, and even thinks, entirely without reason, that I have treated her badly. However, I must trust to his long-standing affection for me to vanquish the artifices of my rivals. I hardly think that he could bring himself to disinherit me after so long allowing me to consider myself his heir. Keep up your spirits, my dear Félicie; the end cannot be far off, and rich or poor, believe in the continued devotion of your faithfully attached husband, ‘HENRY GLENLYNE. ‘_The Albany._’ This was the letter of a man of the world, but hardly the letter of a bad man. The writer of that letter would scarcely repudiate the claim of an only daughter, did he still live to acknowledge her. The journal, written in a russia-leather covered diary, consisted of only disjointed snatches, all dated at Rouen, in the last year of the writer’s life, and all full of a sadness bordering on despair—not the man’s impatience of vexation and trouble, but the deep and settled sorrow of a patient unselfish woman. Many of the lines were merely the ejaculations of a troubled spirit, brief snatches of prayer, supplications to the Mother of Christ to protect the motherless child; utterances of a broken heart, penitential acknowledgments of an act of deceit, prayers for forgiveness of a wrong done to a kind mistress. One entry was evidently written after the receipt of the last letter. It was at the end of the journal, and the hand that inscribed the lines had been weak and tremulous.