So the season wore away until the Spring had again come around. I saw an announcement in a New York paper that Evelyn Afton (her maiden name), who had recently acquired such a brilliant reputation in London, etc., would perform during a short engagement at the Park Theatre. The next morning saw me on the route to New York. I placed myself in an obscure corner of the theatre. The curtain rose. There was a brief absence of all consciousness, and then she came upon the stage. The play was Cymbeline. I know nothing of what transpired, save that when she rendered the words,-- 'Oh for a horse with wings,'-- that light again appeared in her eyes. The performance ended, and a man, feeling himself old and weary, passed into the streets, and wandered through them till morning, wondering if he had not in some way been connected with the brilliant being he had seen; it seemed to him that once there had been some entwining of their fates, but the recollection of it came like the indistinct memory of a half-impressed dream,--as if it had been in some previous condition of existence, and the consciousness of it had lingered through a subsequent metempsychosis. * * * * * I was sitting solitary in an apartment of the humble dwelling which I occupied, poring in a slow, melancholy memory over my past life, and questioning myself when Evelyn would fulfil the promise of again informing me of her intentions. My mood was scarcely disturbed by a knock at the outer door, which was responded to by the maid who had charge of my children, and the next instant I was thrilled almost to stupefaction by seeing Evelyn enter the room. 'I've come! I've come!' she cried, in wild eagerness. 'Have you not expected me? I'm home--home once more. Dearest--lover--husband--I'm here, never to leave you!' I only gasped forth--'Evelyn!' I knew not but it was an illusion. Then she threw herself upon me, and covered me with kisses, uttered a volume of passionate endearments, entwined her arms about me in all tender embraces. I reasoned with myself that it was a dream, and would not stir lest it should dissolve. She stood above me, and again I saw that light in her eyes. Then for the first time I understood its import. Oh! the strange, deep, glorious light of love and resolute devotion. I rose falteringly, and asked in feeble accents,--'Is it you, Evelyn? Have you indeed come?' 'Yes, yes, your Evelyn at last,--come to your arms and your heart. Your own Evelyn, so long unworthy of you. Will you receive me?'