“But Louisa! _Her_ condition was happy enough, till I came to embitter it with my love; for I loved, oh! George, I _thought_ I loved her!” “But you talk at random, Louis. Even yet I cannot comprehend who this young person was, or how you became so fatally interested in her,” said George; “come, old fellow, tell me everything,—there is no fighting with death, but if your wife is above-ground, it will go hard if you and I cannot find her?” Louis shook his head; but George spoke out again with well-assumed cheerfulness. “Let me know every particular about this marriage, and I will go on a crusade for you—it will be like a romance. Indeed, our two lives are a romance. Who would believe that we have never lived under the same roof since you were an infant; that I was bred in Germany, you here; that we never met till both were men, yet loved each other dearly from the first. It was strange, for your mother hated me always. It was she who packed me off to a school in Germany when a mere child. My father sent me money and a letter twice a year. In time, my school was changed to a university; after that I was sent to travel. Then a letter came to say that my father was dead. I came home a stranger; not ten of my father’s nearest friends knew of my existence; but we met as brothers should meet, thank Heaven for that! For your sake I tried to like my father’s widow; I sought her out and went to see her often. Would to Heaven I never had: then one of the sweetest and loveliest creatures that ever lived might have been saved.” CHAPTER LIV. LOUIS DE MARKE’S CONFESSION. Louis de Marke sat for some moments, with a hand to his forehead, perplexed, and, at heart, reluctant to speak. It is true he had been months and months pining for the company of his elder brother, resolving to give him all confidence, and to ask for both counsel and help, at his hands, but now he shrunk from speaking. At last he dropped his hand, and began, abruptly enough:— “It was a sad romance to her, and to me. I have told you, my wife was an orphan and the ward of her only brother. Her father had been the intimate friend of Mrs. Judson, who I have since learned was Louisa’s godmother. The brother, after his father’s death, placed Louisa under this woman’s care.” “And you became acquainted with her?” inquired George, deeply interested. “Yes! Our gardens adjoined; the fences were open and low, and an arbor ran from one to the other. I was often in our side of this arbor, and the young ladies came down to the portion upon their grounds, with their books and music. You have never seen Mrs. Judson’s daughter. She was one of the loveliest creatures eyes ever dwelt upon, serene and gentle as an angel, a sort of moonlight beauty which one loves to dream over.” “You are speaking of Miss Judson now, not of the girl you loved?” questioned George, surprised at his eloquence.