“I will. An’ if ever I kun do yer a good turn, jes call on——” Vance could not hear the name; but he bowed, and the loafer moved on. Looking in another direction, Vance saw Ratcliff dismount, throw the reins to his attendant, and disappear in a vestibule of the hotel. Vance rose and wildly paced the room. His whole frame quivered to the very tips of his fingers, which he stretched forth as if to clutch some invisible antagonist. He muttered incoherent words, and, smiting his brow as if to keep back thoughts that struggled too tumultuously for expression, cried: “O that I had him here,—here, face to face,—weaponless, both of us! Would I not—The merciless villain! The cowardly miscreant! To lash a woman! That moment of horror! Often as I’ve lived it over, it is ever new. Can eternity make it fade? Again I see her,-pale, very pale and bleeding,—and tied,—tied to the stake. O Ratcliff! When shall this bridled vengeance overtake thee? Pshaw! What is _he_,—an individual,—what is the sum of pain that _he_ can suffer? Would that be a requital? Will not his own devices work better for me than aught _I_ can do?” Seating himself in an arm-chair, Vance calmed his vindictive thoughts. In memory he went back to that day when he first heard Estelle sing; then to their first evening in Mrs. Mallet’s little house; then to the old magnolia-tree before it. That house he had bought and given in keeping to Mrs. Bernard, a married granddaughter of old Leroux, the Frenchman. Every tree and shrub in the area had been reverently cared for. Had not Estelle plucked blossoms from them all? He thought of his marriage,—of his pleasant walks with Estelle in Jackson Square,—of their musical enjoyments,—of all her little devices to minister to his comfort and delight,—and then of the sudden clouding of this brief but most exquisite sunshine. Vance took from the pocket of his vest a little circular box of rosewood. Unscrewing the cover, he revealed a photograph of Estelle, taken after her marriage. There was such a smile on the countenance as only the supreme happiness of a loving heart could have created. On the opposite circle was a curl of her hair of that strangely beautiful neutral tint which Vance had often admired. This he pressed to his lips. “Dear saint,” he murmured, “I have not forgotten thy parting words. For thy sake will I wrestle with this spirit that would seek a _paltry_ revenge. Thy smile, O my beloved! shall dispel the remembrance of thy agony, and thy love shall conquer all earth-born hate. For thy dear sake will I still calmly meet thy murderer. O, lend me of thy divine patience to endure his presence! Sweet child, affectionate and pure, I can dream of nothing in heaven more precious than thyself. If from thee, O my beloved! come this spiritual refreshing and reinforcement,—if from thee these tender influences, so bright and yet so gentle,—then must thy sphere be one within which the angels delight to come.”