_May 8th._—Mr. D’Arcy possesses, in a remarkable degree, the power of affecting the heart and imagination with what remains unspoken. He sets you thinking. In his presence, you brush the rust from your mind, and new ideas flow in upon you. To-day, he spoke to us of Swedenborg, and of the charming and consoling doctrine of that great Christian seer; that however lonely our earthly lot, however mistaken we may have been in our choice of a mate, those who by perseverance in well doing eventually become angels, will, sooner or later, meet with their true conjugal partner—their other self—in a higher sphere. A beautiful philosophy, and not unreasonable, when we consider that love, in its true sense, is the strongest and purest, as well as the most exquisitely delightful sentiment of our nature: nor would the Creator have implanted this passion in our souls, but that He intended to satisfy it to the full; if, therefore, sad experience shows how rarely on earth we are truly mated, it follows, logically, that this sweetest and tenderest of the spirit’s yearnings looks for realization in a higher sphere of being. Such, at least, is D’Arcy’s firm belief; such also, he tells me, is that of many of the most eminently intellectual and spiritual of his countrymen and countrywomen. Mary is, of course, charmed: she says there is, at last, some chance for her. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XX. +THE SISTER OF MERCY+ IT was now the middle of summer, and remarkably hot for the season. All our friends had left, or were leaving Paris, and yet we still lingered on in our pretty apartment of the Avenue Gabriel. One morning, suddenly looking up from my embroidery, I was struck with the pallor of Evelyn’s countenance, and the look of weariness she wore. A book was lying open on a table near; but she did not read. Silently she dreamed, her head resting on her hand. “Dear Evelyn,” I said, while she started as one aroused from sleep; “shall we not soon go to the country? You look far from well—and Ella would cull fresh roses at the sea, or at Baden.” “Ella is very well,” she answered listlessly, “and attends her classes daily. I, too, am well enough,” and she heaved a sigh so heartsore it was almost a sob. “Indeed, dearest, you have been suffering for three weeks—ever since the last ball at the Tuilleries, when you looked like a sunset cloud, as Mr. D’Arcy said.” She gave a short, quick start, “all in golden colored tulle and hazy blonde. I never saw you look more lovely.” “Not enough,” returned Evelyn gloomily, “would I were a thousand times more beautiful. Even then,” she whispered, as if to herself, “I should not match with the matchless.” “Is it possible? and are you serious?” I said, painfully alive to her emotion; “is your happiness so entirely involved in—”