“Nearly two years ago,” Star began, “I came to America in the ——, a vessel that sailed from Liverpool to New York. Perhaps you remember that it was lost at sea. I was one of the few who were saved, and afterward picked up by the ——, another homeward bound vessel. As I was lifted from the life-boat to the deck of the noble craft, I fainted from exhaustion, and fell into the arms of a stranger, who bore me to a state-room and gave me into the care of a stewardess. I met him a day or two afterward on the deck. He was a noble, manly looking gentleman, some four years my senior. We were thrown much into each other’s society during the remainder of the voyage, and there came into my heart during that time a feeling for him which will prevent me from ever loving another while I live. When we landed we parted as friends, though we exchanged souvenirs, and he expressed the hope that we should meet again. A few months later we did meet, our friendship was renewed, and soon ripened into something deeper—in fact, he won my heart entirely. We were betrothed, and for a few days earth became a paradise to me. I firmly believed him to be all that he appeared. I could have staked my life upon his truth and honor, and I would have defended him with my latest breath had any one assailed his fair fame or doubted his allegiance to me. But I could not doubt the evidence of my own senses, and he proved himself a traitor in my very presence. He played me false before the vows which he had uttered to me had scarcely grown cold upon his lips. I spurned him with scorn; I denounced him as the traitor and coward which I knew him to be; but, oh, Mr. Meredith, strange as it may seem to you, I—I love him still. Perhaps it is unmaidenly in me to tell you this, perhaps it betrays weakness and a lack of proper dignity on my part; but I feel that I owe it to you, to make you understand how impossible it is for me to reciprocate your affection. He won my girlish heart, he bound me irrevocably to him by the power of his will and the charm of his oily tongue, and I can _never_ love another. You will say that he is unworthy of such constancy, or even of a regret. I know he is, and yet while I own it, my soul is reaching after him with all the strength of a deathless love. I began to fear, a week ago, that you were entertaining feelings for me which would bring sorrow upon us both. You say that I have evaded you. I _have_ done so; I have tried to show you that the hopes which I feared you were entertaining could never be realized, and I wish that you had never spoken the words which you have to-night; for I know—_you_ know, that you could never be satisfied to take any one to your heart who was always turning from you to another, who, although she knew she was loving unworthily, would not yet have the power to keep her affections from straying from you, and who could not keep her vows of allegiance to you, for such vows, if spoken, would be but mockery. Mr.