Mrs. Leroy was ill a long time. It was spring before she was able to see any one, and then she sent for me. I had known all along that she would do so, and had been awaiting her summons with nervous anxiety. For I suppose you have already guessed that I loved Eudora Leroy. She was downstairs, lying on a lounge, when I was shown into her presence, but she arose instantly and took a chair by the window. Before she spoke I had leisure to observe how much she had changed, and how wan and dejected she was generally. Even her voice had lost much of the silvery ring which I had loved so well to hear. She began to tell me her little history. I had been kind to her, she said, and she thought it but justice that I should know all she had to tell. By birth she was a Louisianian. Her father was a wealthy planter, who had been twice married. Albert was the son of his last wife. He had been a difficult child to manage from his birth, and, as he grew older, caused his friends a world of trouble. When he was fifteen, his mother died, committing him to the care of Eudora. She promised the dying woman to use her best influence for his good, and faithfully had the vow been kept. She had followed him into places where it brought a blush to her face to enter, and, vicious as he was, he never refused to go back with her. She had paid his debts--for all the property was left to her at the death of her father--she had borne with all his vices patiently, she had hoped always that he would eventually forsake his evil ways and become the honest, respectable man she desired him to be. He had become concerned in a disgraceful affair at New Orleans which compelled him to leave the city, and she had settled up her affairs there and come to New England with him. He was remorseful, and promised her faithfully that if she would take him to some secluded place, where he should never meet Granger again, he would try to reform. Granger had been his bane; but for his baleful influence he would never have sunk to such depths of degradation. So, full of hope for the future, Eudora had come to Southbridge. She had married, only a year previously, a man much her senior, who had been thrown from his horse and killed only a year after the marriage. I gathered from Eudora’s manner while speaking of this marriage, that she had never loved her husband, but had become his wife because he loved her, and because his influence was very strong over Albert. And the idea gave me unqualified satisfaction. You may say it is foolish to be jealous of the dead, but--well, never mind. Most of us are selfish enough to want the entire affections of those we love. We do not care to share a divided interest.