It is true, alas! that I dare not hope that one so gifted and so adored, will await the uncertainties of war, and mourn, in some retired corner of the earth, the absence of a future husband. No, Evelyn—I deeply feel the vanity of entertaining such a hope, even for a moment. I know, too well, you will meet those who will hang on each word, and watch every look, as I have done. You will _never_ forget me; but I shall share your heart with others. It is for this, therefore, that I am resolved, cost what it will, and at the risk of breaking my heart, to utter this fatal word—Farewell, then, beloved of my soul—my first, my only love—_you are free_. Think of me, henceforth, as a tender brother. I will ever cherish you as a sister. For your own sake, and that of your dear Ella, be prudent; remember that a woman’s name should never even be breathed upon. One more effort—one more bitter pang, and my self-imposed duty is done. If ever my sweet sister should find one who loves her as I do—but who, unlike poor Melville, approaches near to the standard of perfection she has erected in her own imagination—then, dearest, do not hesitate to become his wife. My prayers shall ever be offered up for your happiness; and you, my ever-beloved Evelyn, will not, even in the midst of that bliss, refuse—if I fall—to drop a tear for one who would die to save you even one moment’s uneasiness. Farewell—farewell! R. M. EVELYN TRAVERS TO REGINALD MELVILLE. Castellamare, Villa des Alberi, 5th May. I have been seriously ill, dear Reginald, or you would have heard from me ere this. I left Florence a week after I received your letter; and the fatigues of the journey, added to the violent shock consequent on the receipt of such sad news, quite overcame me. I was taken with a nervous trembling, which ended in fever. For two months I have been confined to my room, and strictly forbidden to write, read, or even to think. I have, however, succeeded in persuading my doctor, that to remain alone with my regrets for the past is retarding indefinitely my recovery. He has, therefore, permitted me to write these few lines to you. And are we, then, really to be parted _forever_? Oh! my once kind Reginald, why condemn me to live without your love! I see at last the folly and madness of sacrificing a true attachment for the heartless and aimless admiration of the passing hour. Oh! how lonely do I feel now in the world—how its hollowness wearies me! Sweet Ella even seems to reproach my frivolity with her calm angel eyes; nor can I endure Mary’s face of grave and sad reproof.