“He incloses this letter to you,” and opening his own envelope, Raymond Withers took out a delicately folded letter and handed it to her; she received it with a trembling hand, broke the seal, glanced over the contents, the letter dropped from her stiffening fingers, her face grew white as death, her lips paled and fell apart, her eyes closed, and she sank into a swoon upon his bosom. He held her there without alarm or embarrassment; he stooped and picked up the letter she had let fall. He glanced over it—it was full of the youthful lover’s exultant young life; one page was filled with glowing accounts of the battle, the victory, the prize; another with passionate protestations of love, fervent aspirations after a speedy re-union, &c., &c.; but upon the page upon which her eyes had been fixed when she swooned, was an expression of a hope that she would bestow her hand upon him during his present visit, assuring her that he bore with him letters to that effect from Captain Wilde and from Sophie. Rosalia opened her eyes just before he finished reading it. He raised her partly off his arm, and said, “Well, Rosalia, I have read your letter or the greater part of it, do you care?” “No—oh, no!” “Well, Rosalia, you will probably meet your betrothed at the house of your intended mother-in-law.” “Oh, I had rather die! die!” “Rosalia!” “Oh, I had! I had a _thousand times_ rather die than _meet_ him! much less marry him!” “Rosalia, there is one way to avoid it.” She looked at him in painful inquiry. “Go with me to the Mediterranean!” She started violently—again the blood rushed in torrents to her face, and passing, left it pale as marble. She did not attempt a reply in words—he continued, “Captain Wilde is cruising in the Mediterranean. Sophie is either with him or residing with the family of some English or American Consul at some convenient seaport. I can easily find out. I can very easily take you to them, to Captain and Mrs. Wilde, if you would prefer that to living with Mrs. Buncombe.” “Oh, yes, indeed I should so prefer it, greatly prefer it, but could it be done? is it right that it should be done? Will Mrs. Buncombe think it proper? and will Hagar approve of it? I wish this letter had come a day sooner, so that we might have consulted Hagar!” Raymond Withers smiled a strange smile as he said, “Whatever Mrs. Buncombe may say or think, I do not imagine that Hagar will be much surprised, or that Sophie Wilde will fail to give you a most enthusiastic welcome _when she sees you_!” “If I thought it were possible, that is to say, convenient and agreeable all around, and perfectly right and proper in every respect, I—oh, I should be so happy to go! but though I do not know _why_, indeed, I am afraid it is not right.” “Would _I_ suggest a measure to you, Rosalia, that is not right?” he asked, reproachfully. “No, no—oh, certainly not—I did not mean _that_.” He looked at her steadily.