It was "only a line." Very short, very sweet, very bitter, very pointed; and yet, I value that little letter so highly that I would not exchange it for the world! The words are stained with tear-drops that, I know, fell from loving, grey eyes; while, its sense, though painful, is sweet to me from its outspoken truthfulness:--I value it so highly, that I could not deem it more precious, if it were written on a golden tablet in characters set with diamonds--were it the longest letter maiden ever wrote, the sweetest billet lover ever received! "_Frank! I cannot, I must not grant your request. Do not wring my heart by writing to me again, or speaking to me; for, I have promised, and we are not to see each other any more. I am breaking my word in writing to you now, but, oh! do not think badly of me. Indeed, indeed, I am not heartless, Frank. It has not been my fault, believe me. I shall pray for you always, always! I must not say any more_. "_Minnie Clyde_." That was all the little note contained; but, it was quite enough. Was it not? When I had read it and read it, over and over again, I was almost beside myself,--with a grief that was mixed up with feelings of intense anger and rage against her whom I looked upon as the author of my sufferings-- Mrs Clyde. Min had been again sent down to the country, the very day on which I received her heart-breaking letter. This I heard from my old friend, dear little Miss Pimpernell, who tried vainly to console me. She endeavoured to make me believe that "all would come right in the end," as she had prophesied before; but, I refused to be comforted. I could not share her faith. I would not be sanguine any more; no, never any more! I saw Mrs Clyde at church the very next Sunday. I went there in the hope that my darling might have returned, and that I would see her--not from any religious feeling. There was only her mother there, however. I waited to accost her at the church door after the service was over. "Oh, Mrs Clyde," I said, "do not be my enemy!" But, she took no notice of me:--she cut me dead. I was convinced that all was lost now. It was of no use my longer attempting to fight against fate:--I gave up hope completely;--and then--and then-- I went to the devil! Rochefoucauld says in his pointed "Maxims" that-- "There is nothing so catching as example; nor is there ever great good or ill done that does not produce its like. We imitate good actions through emulation, and bad ones through the malignity of our nature, which shame restrains and example emancipates." That was my case now.