It has been a strange story. To come here a hunted criminal—a convicted one, too—with my ill gotten money in my pocket and my identity a secret—to have been introduced to good society through a chance acquaintance—to have been introduced by that same acquaintance to a woman I could actually love—what is more wonderful still, to win that woman’s love—to be on the point of marrying her and then to fear arrest—to fear far more than that—to fear breaking her heart! It has been a strange story, all of it. I did something, though, that very few men could have done—very few, indeed, of those who have never known a temptation and never done a wrong. I gave her up, that she might not be unhappy—that she might not be disgraced as she would have been some day—for after all, I am certain that my time has almost come. I can wear the hideous clothes of a convict—I can bear disgrace, for I am used to it—I can stand the hard, unceasing, degrading labor, and the disgusting food—but I cannot disgrace her—I cannot! And I did it all yesterday. I went to her. She greeted me with a loving smile, the memory of which will solace me in the long years of suffering. She was entertaining, with the aid of her sister, some intimate friends. They were all delighted to see me. Ah, how happy people must be who are respectable! She came to me with outstretched arms as I entered the room, and I pushed her roughly away. Oh, it was agonizing—she burst into tears and threw herself into the arms of her sister. I could not tell her that I was a forger, a professional criminal, but I told her that I was an adventurer—that I did not love her, and that I had intended to marry her merely for her money. I told her, too, that I had learned that her father was on the point of bankruptcy (it was a lie, of course, all of it) and that I wished to be released from my engagement. I said it before them all. I acted splendidly. It broke her heart, it disgusted the rest, it almost killed me—but, thank heaven, it saved her future. Then I mockingly took my leave. And since then I have not slept, nor eaten, nor felt the effect of the brandy I have poured down my throat—and what is more, I have not cared whether that man with the gold rimmed spectacles was watching me or not. I have done what was right—I have actually done what was right once in my life, thank God! Ah—there—is—that—man—again! And—he is coming toward me. There are—other men with him. He is looking at me now—deliberately. He knows me. It is all up. Come on, Avenger, come on. I welcome you with both my outstretched hands. Where are the irons? YESTERDAY AND TODAY. “Last night, dear Antoinette,” (’Tis thus a wooer writes, Whose thoughts are deeply set On love’s profound delights,) “Asleep within my chair Thy vision I did greet, And, joy beyond compare, I dreamed I kissed thee, sweet.”