‘He cannot come to me, yet there is no unkindness in his refusal. He promises to come soon, to bring the darling whose tender form these arms yearn to embrace, whose fair young head may never more recline on this bosom. O, happy days at Sidmouth, how they come back to me in sweet delusive dreams! I see the garden above the blue smiling sea. I hold my little girl in my arms, or lead her by her soft little hand as she toddles in and out among the old crooked apple-trees in the orchard. Henry has promised to come in a little while; but Death comes faster, Death knows no delays. I did not wish to alarm my husband. I would not let Hortense write, for she would have told him the bitter truth. Yet, I sometimes ask myself sadly, would that truth seem bitter to him? Might not my death bring him a welcome release? I know that he has loved me. I can but remember that we spent four happy years together in beautiful England; but when I think of the difficulties that surround him, the ruin which threatens him, can I doubt that my death will be a relief to him? It will grieve that kind heart, but it will put an end to his troubles. God grant that when I am gone he may have courage to acknowledge his child! The fear that he may shrink from that sacred duty racks my heart. Blessed Mother, intercede for my orphan child!’ Then came disjointed passages—passages that were little more than prayer. Here and there, mingled with pious hopes, with spiritual aspirations, came the cry of human despair. ‘Death comes faster than my husband. My Henry, I shall see thee no more. Ah, if thou lovest me, my beloved, why dost thou not hasten? It is hard to die without one pitying look from those dear eyes, one tender word from that loved voice. Hast thou forgotten thy Félicie, whom thou didst pursue so ardently five years ago? I wait for thee now, dear one; but the end is near. The hope of seeing thee once again fades fast. Wilt thou have quite forgotten me ere we meet in heaven? A long life lies before thee; thou wilt form new ties, and give to another the love that was once Félicie’s. In that far land where we may meet hereafter thou wilt look on me with unrecognising eyes. O, to see thee once more on earth—to feel thy hand clasping mine as life ebbs away!’ Lucius closed the little book with a sigh. Alas, how many a woman’s life ends thus, with a broken heart! Happy those finer natures whose fragile clay survives not the shattered lamp of the soul! There are some fashioned of a duller stuff, in whom the mere habit of life survives all that gave life its charm.