As if one had taken a sledge-hammer, and struck with violence a blow on the very centre of my heart—such was the shock I experienced. Stunned, unconscious, I heard no more. Had it not been thus mercifully arranged, I had not stifled a burst of passionate anguish. When I in some measure recovered my senses a mortal despair seized upon me. The shades of evening had now closed in, my soul too was all gloom. Still those soft accents fell on my ear, till at length I distinguished the words, “Have I then your consent?” In vain would I have replied, but my throat was parched—my tongue paralyzed. I could only bend my head in token of assent. “On one other subject would I also for a moment speak,” and then the beloved voice trembled and faltered, “Pardon me, but your happiness is dear—dearer to me than my own. I understand,”—he hesitated, and then spoke rapidly, as though he would be rid of an ungrateful task, “I hear, there is one who adores you—one who has haply not loved in vain—one, in fine, who even now stands toward you in the light of an affianced husband. May I express the hope that this union will no longer be delayed, and that bliss such as rarely falls to mortal lot may be yours, and his for your sweet sake?” Philip raised my hand to his lips. “Good God?” he cried, “you are ill—your hand is cold and clammy as in death.” I tried to smile. Happily the darkness covered the ghastly and futile attempt. By a supreme effort I rose to my feet. “I am well. I thank you,” I gasped, “for—for your good wishes. I shall”—and I pressed both hands on my heart to still its wild beatings, now and forever, if I could—“I shall marry soon—very soon.” Staggering to the door, I met Mary and Ella.—Motioning the latter toward the boudoir, and clinging almost fainting to Mary, who caught me in her arms, I was half-led, half-carried to my bed-chamber—where, left alone with my grief, my despair, my lost love, my wounded woman’s pride—worn out by that “hope deceived which maketh the heart sick,” exhausted nature could no more, and sleep at length in pity steeped my weary soul in forgetfulness. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIII. +LOVED IN VAIN+ IS there one among us who has not, at some period of his life, experienced the dull pain which, on the morrow of a great grief, ever returns to us with the first dawn of consciousness? Have we not hated the very light of another day? Have not all familiar objects lost their charm for us? How sensitively, too, have we shrunk from contact with the domestics—aye, even from the loved faces of the home circle! Alone would we entertain our sorrow. We are in love with her, and from her we will not be parted. This is the very luxury of grief. Joy may be a social passion; but surely the converse is true of profound misery.