By this time, my most gentle readers are growing, _tant soi peu_, tired of--what they presume to call---my consummate nonsense! and an indulgent public is, I must however say, somewhat prematurely thinking about throwing aside my very charming narrative of facts in high life as they actually took place; though I do not specify in what year or years, being anxious to forget all such critical matters as dates. To such of the kind public as may have a perverted taste for the serious, I beg leave to state that I am now making my _début_ in a tragic part; but venture humbly to express the hope that my tragical adventures will furnish more interest to my readers than they supplied amusement to me. I have twice before stated that Lord Ponsonby's attachment to me continued, or appeared to continue, unabated for the space of nearly three years: _et, savez-vous, mes belles dames, que cela est beaucoup?_ Towards the end of that period, he one evening appeared to me unusually melancholy. I had frequently reproached him with making a mystery to me of something which must have happened to him; but he not only assured me that I was mistaken, but began to affect more than his accustomed gaiety; and he acted his part so well that I was doubtful whether I had not been altogether deceived. "Then perhaps you are only out of health," said I, "instead of out of spirits? for I am sure that your hands are feverish." "Now you have discovered it," said Ponsonby, laughing; "I am going to die!--Would you regret me?" said he: and then, in a tone of much feeling, added, as he put back my thick hair with his two hands, to kiss my forehead and examine the expression of my countenance, intensely, as though he were taking a last farewell of it--"I will not ask you; for I am sure you would." He now took up some paper and began to write, holding his hand before the paper to prevent my seeing a single line. "What are you writing?" I asked. "Private business," was Ponsonby's answer. On this I sat down to my pianoforte, that I might not interrupt him. Yet it struck me that it must be something for me, or that he would not have written it at my house. Lord Ponsonby had often hinted that he wished to make a provision for me, during my life, of two hundred pounds a year. I imagined that this might be something of a promise to that effect:--but, as I knew Ponsonby at that time to be very poor and much in debt, my resolution was taken at once. "He will divide his purse with me," thought I, "while he lives and loves me--and I will never look forward, nor provide for one hour after Ponsonby shall be lost to me." As soon as he had sealed up a letter, which he put into his pocket, he looked at his watch and, starting upon his feet, said, in a voice of real distress, "I must go!--Who would have imagined that it could be so late!" "Must you go home, already?" I asked.