"Dearest, all these pictures Cannot half portray How my life has altered Since you've gone away!" HARRY ROMAINE. It was impossible for Hawthorne to sleep that night after the sight of the beautiful stranger, Miss Fitzgerald, whose startling likeness to his lost darling had awakened in his heart a fresh agony of love and pain. He tossed and turned restlessly all night upon his pillow, thinking of Geraldine until his heart was on fire with its agony. Could it be true what that dastard Standish had told him? Had he indeed won the girl from the path of truth and honor, to make shipwreck of her life for the sake of a guilty love? No, no, no! He could not, would not believe it! She was pure as snow, his lovely Geraldine. But where was she, what had been her fate since she left New York in company with the arch-villain, Standish? "I cannot find her by myself. I must put a detective on the case to-morrow," he decided. The young author, who was burning the midnight oil over a charming poem, was disturbed by his groans, and came in to see about him. "I fear you are worse. That little outing was too much for you," he exclaimed. "No, it is not that. I am restless; it is a trouble of the heart," confessed the patient, frankly. "Ah!" exclaimed Ralph, sympathetically, adding: "Can I help you?" "No one can help me," sighed Hawthorne, hopelessly. "Is it a love affair?" "Yes." "It is hopeless, I judge, from your expressions. Then why not throw it from your mind? Forget the cruel fair one?" "Have you ever loved, Ralph?" "Never," laughed the handsome young author, who only worshiped at the shrine of the muses. "I thought not, or you would not use that hackneyed word forget. It is impossible to real love--a poet's dream, but an impossibility." "Have you loved so deeply?" "With all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind!" groaned Hawthorne, adding: "My dear friend, may God keep you from ever knowing such love and pain and grief as fill my heart to bursting." Ralph was silent. He saw that here was a grief beyond comfort. He wondered what was the mysterious nature of Hawthorne's sad love-story, but he was too generous to ask such a question. He could only gaze at him in tender, silent sympathy. Hawthorne continued, passionately: "It is not my way to dwell on my own troubles, but to-night my sorrow overwhelms me! To love and to lose--oh, Ralph, that is the bitterest thing of life!" "Is she dead, your loved one?" "Ah! no, she is not dead! I could almost wish that she were, in my dread that she is dead to me forever! And if she is, oh, if she is, how can I bear the gloom of my life henceforward?--the blank darkness of a night of storm following on the sunshine of a perfect day. Oh, God!" groaned Hawthorne, tossing his arms above his pillow in anguish.