What! Min dead--my darling whom I had hurried home to see once more, the whisper of whose calling I had heard across the expanse of vast Atlantic in eager entreaty; and whose tender, clinging affection I had looked forward to, as the earnest of all my toils and struggles, my longing hopes, my halting doubts, my groans, my tears! It could not be. I would not believe it. God could not be so cruel as man; and what man would do such a heartless deed? It was false. Could I not hear her merry, rippling laughter, as she came forth heart-joyous to greet me; see the dear, soul-lit, grey eyes beaming with happiness and love; feel her perfumed violet breath as she raised her darling little rosebud of a mouth to mine--as I had fancied, and pictured it all, over and over again, a thousand times and more? Hark! was not that her glad voice speaking now in silvery accents--"O, Frank!" nothing more; but, a world of welcome in the simple syllables? Dead! How could she be dead, when I was waiting to hear from her truth- telling, loving lips what she had written to tell me already--that she trusted me again, as she had trusted me in those old, old days that had passed by never to return; and, loved me still in spite of all? Dead! It was a lie. They wanted to deceive me. They were joking with me! Min, my darling, dead? It could not be. It was impossible! Did they take me for a fool? I could laugh at the idea.--What did they mean by it? Min, dead!--God in heaven--how _could_ they torture me so! But, it was true. I cannot bear to speak of it all now, it unmans me. It makes me, a great strong man, appear as a little sobbing child! I do not know what went on for days after I realised what had happened to me. I was mad, I believe; for they said I had lost my senses. And even now, sometimes, I feel as if I were not myself, when I recall the past with all its empty dreams--in which I almost attained to paradise--that were ruthlessly swept away in one fell swoop by the agony of hell I suffered on being conscious of my loss. No, I am not myself. There is something missing in me--something that completed my identity; and, without which, I am not even a perfect atom on the ocean of time--as I will be nothing in, the labyrinth of eternity!--For,-- "The waves of a mighty sorrow Have whelmed the pearl of my life; And there cometh for me no morrow, To solace this desolate strife!" When I was able to bear the narration, I was told all.