Thoughts of the days that were gone—days spent in perfect happiness with her,—thoughts that he strove in vain to repel, arose at times, causing his divided heart to swell within his bosom till its cords seemed about to snap. Love struggled strongly with love in his breast. He unclasped the miniature of Alice, and gazed upon it by the light of the moon. He had not looked upon it for many, many months, and his eyes filled with tears while he did so now, and recalled the joyous expression of her hazel eye and merry ringing of her girlish laugh; but when he thought of Lord Hyndford, the newspaper paragraph, and the cold conduct of her brother, he closed it with vehemence, and looked upon it no more that night. Even a long wished-for slumber, when it came at last, was disturbed by dreams no less painful than his waking thoughts. He imagined that he was in the splendid chapel of Santa Cruz, and that Catalina stood beside him in all her dignity and beauty, arrayed as he had seen her last in a profusion of white lace and muslin. She yet lived! The idea of her death was but a horrible dream. O what ecstacy was in that thought! No black tomb was yawning in the chancel, but the aisles were crowded by a gay party, whose forms appeared wavering, indistinct, and indescribable. But Ronald recked not of them; Catalina was there, with her eyes sparkling, her cheek blushing, and her tresses flowing as of old, and orange-buds were entwined with the white roses of her coronal. He embraced her,—but, lo! a change came over the features of the Spanish maiden, and they became the softer, but equally beautiful features of Alice Lisle! A low and heavenly melody stole upon his ears,—he started, and awoke.