“When I repeated her very words to him he was deeply affected, which increased my hopes of a reconciliation. He was greatly changed in many respects, and I thought the prospects of an understanding were brightening. The time was near at hand when I was to go to Philadelphia again to take my last course before receiving my diploma. Mr. Rockland had at last consented that Lottie and I should be married when I returned. During the summer Viola contracted a large number of debts, after having exhausted her cash income. Her guardian was very greatly annoyed and embarrassed by the demands of the creditors, and was threatening to resign his office as guardian. The trustees in New York were complaining of the continuous calls made on them for money, and had promptly refused to encourage such extravagance. I must, however, do Viola the justice to say that she did not squander the money where it would do no good, but was distributing it among the worthy poor people of the city. I was invited, one day, to go with her on a visit among the suffering people who were the recipients of her bounty, and, before I had finished the visit, I had occasion to change the unfavorable opinion I had formed in regard to her conduct. She went about the matter in a business-like manner; interrogated a family, ascertained what was needed to make them comfortable, gave an order on a merchant for the articles, and passed on to the next family, repeating the same good work there. I saw large numbers of ragged children clinging to her skirts and pressing kisses on her hands, while sickly mothers were praying for Heaven’s richest blessings to fall on the dear angel who had kept their children from starving. As I witnessed those affecting scenes, I was more inclined to indorse Viola’s course than I was to condemn it. “The first of October found me again in Philadelphia, hard at work and full of bright hopes as to the future--reading Lottie’s sweet letters of love, and thinking of the happy day that was soon to make her my wife. CHAPTER XIV. “One morning some three months after my arrival in Philadelphia, I was seated at the breakfast table of the Girard Hotel, when a servant laid a letter on my plate. I saw from the postmark that it was from Memphis, and I recognized the handwriting as Harry’s; I lost no time, of course, in opening it. Before I had read it half through I was perfectly paralyzed with horror, and made an effort to rise from my seat with a view of going immediately to my room. I staggered like a man intoxicated, and would have fallen to the floor, but that the steward caught me and kindly led me from the room. “‘Your letter brings you bad news, I fear, Mr. Demar! You seem to be quite overcome; shall I get you a glass of wine, sir?’ “‘No, thank you,’ I groaned, rather than spoke; ‘help me to my room--I wish to be alone.’