Unlocking a drawer in my writing-table, I took out a packet of letters that still emitted a stale odour of violets. Then I lit my pipe, and one by one read them through, pausing and pondering over the declarations of passionate love they contained. Far into the night I sat reviewing the romance of bygone days, until I came to the last letter. It was a cold, formal note, merely a few lines of hurried scrawl, and read: "You are right. I have been false to you. Think no more of me. By the time you receive this I shall be on my way to New York; nevertheless, you will be always remembered by yours unworthily-- Ethel." Bitter memories of the past overwhelmed me; but at last, growing impatient, and tossing the letters back into the drawer, I strove to forget. The clock had struck two, and my reading-lamp was burning low and sputtering when I rose to retire for the night. I confess that my frame of mind surprised me, inasmuch as I actually found myself still loving her. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Good afternoon. I hope I don't disturb you." Looking up from my work, I saw Ethel. "Not at all. Pray sit down," I said coldly, motioning her to an armchair. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit?" She pulled off her long gloves, and let her sealskin cape fall at her feet, while I put down my pen, and, rising, stood with my back to the fire. With her she had brought the odour of violets, the same that I remembered years ago; the same perfume that always stirred sad memories within me. "You don't welcome me very warmly," she said in a disappointed tone, as she grasped my hand, and looked steadily into my eyes. "No," I said sternly. "Last night I told you that a woman had embittered my life. The woman I referred to was yourself." "Ah," she said, striving to suppress a sob, "Forgive me! I--I was mad then. I loved you; but I did not apprehend the consequence." "Love? What nonsense to speak of it, when through your baseness I have been almost ruined. Think of your actions on the day before you left me; how you took from that drawer a signed blank cheque, with which you drew six hundred pounds,--nearly all the money I possessed,--and then fled with your lover. Is that the way a woman shows her affection?" Her head was bowed in humiliation. "Forgive me, Harold," she said, with intense earnestness. "I admit that I wronged you cruelly, that I discarded the honest love you gave me; but you--you do not know how weak we women are when temptation is in our path. Cannot I now make amends?" I shook my head sadly. "Don't say that you will not forgive," she implored tearfully. "At least I am honest. My object in coming this afternoon was to repay the money I--I borrowed." And she drew forth an envelope from her pocket and handed it to me. "There are notes for six hundred pounds," she added, as I took it and felt the crisp paper inside.