Four years had elapsed; we again met. My soul thrilled with delight in beholding, in contemplating, her perfections! How was that delight increased when I saw her countenance shed its loveliest smiles, her eye pour its heavenliest beams--on _me_--happy presumption--I loved. _We_ loved; but words spoke not our love. No, each read it in the burning glances that were reciprocated--in the spirit-breathing sighs that would ever and anon steal forth--spite of suppression. Let me shorten the tale of rapture. She was mine; Annette was mine--mine undividedly. SHE IS MINE NO LONGER. Ask not the cause. I was infuriated, befooled, infatuated; my own "hands threw the pearl away;" my own lips gave, sealed the sentence, that robbed me for ever, ay, for ever, of a heart--a treasure, it had been heaven to possess. SHE IS MINE NO LONGER--yet a pleasure it is, a melancholy pleasure, how I love it, to recall those moments of refined, of voluptuous enjoyment, my sole remaining happiness, that they _were_, my bitterest pang, that they _are not_--moments, when amid the busy circle--scarce could the eagle glance of surrounding observation control the bursting emotions of the soul, or, oh, more blest--moments of solitude--where those motions broke forth, unobserved, unrestrained. SHE IS MINE NO LONGER. Yet Annette sleeps not in the sombre grave. A blast, not of death, but more dire, hath scattered those hopes, too unsubstantially fond to be realized: a chill not of the grave, but more piercing, hath nipped those blossoms of happiness, too ethereally delicate for earth. Still Annette lives, beautiful as ever, enchanting as ever, lives, but for another. Stay, let me recall that word, I wrong her; it must not, cannot be; her _heart_ is not, never shall be his; with mine it hath lost its _one_ resting place, and like the dove, seeks not another. Cruel fate, but I have ceased to repine--ceased to regret. IOTA. * * * * * Select Biography. * * * * * MEMOIR OF BOLIVAR. _(Concluded from page 213.)_