Our unhappy heroine dared not thus indulge her sorrow—she must up and be doing. The poisoned arrow which had pierced her bosom must there remain, an agonized but concealed torture. Ah! me—those pangs for which the world would have no pity, and which, therefore, we must hide under the semblance of smiles, are ever the most poignant. Like lawful love, legitimate grief may be deep; but neither are of that stormy nature which shakes the soul to its foundation, and blights the whole existence. So Evelyn arose, mechanically, and suffered her maid to attire her; then, causing the blinds to be closed, the better to conceal her haggard countenance, she bade the attendant leave the room. To the question—“Will madame take breakfast now?” her mistress replied, that she merely required a cup of tea; and added, that, having important letters to write, she must not for the present be disturbed. Then flinging herself into a chair, and covering her aching eyes with her hand, she endeavored to collect her thoughts. Just then, she felt a soft warm touch—when, starting, she turned and perceived her faithful dog, the gift of di Balzano. He had placed his paw in her hand, and he looked into her face with a fond, wistful glance, which seemed to say, “Dear mistress, you are sick or sad; but your poor dog loves you, and will never forsake you.” And Evelyn comprehended, and she flung her arm about the shaggy neck of her favorite, and the large scalding drops fell on his honest head. “Poor Dashey,” she said—“poor fellow!”—and tears, too, almost human, stood in the eyes of the loving animal. Nay, mock not, gentle reader—for, as the author has observed, so she writes. She once had a dog whom she has seen weep more than once; and when the poor fond creature died, she mourned for her (for she was of the softer sex) as for a friend. And Evelyn went to her writing-table—her resolve was taken. “Good, kind Balzano,” she said; “how he loved me—unworthy as I am! I will no longer delay writing to him;” and she penned the letter we here transcribe: A Sua Excellenza, il Duca di Balzano, Palazzo Balzano, Naples, August—, 18—. DEAR FRIEND,—Pardon my prolonged silence, and apparent neglect. I have been ill—dangerously ill—for many weeks. Before that, I had come to no decision on the subject of your last letter. I cannot be a Catholic; but, if you can procure a dispense from the Pope, I will now be your wife. Can you forgive my caprice! At last, I understand how cruelly you must have suffered through me. Henceforth, it will be the sole aim of my life to compensate for past folly, by future devotion to your happiness. Write soon, and say when we may expect you here. Ella you will find grown out of all knowledge. You were ever a favorite with her. I cannot write more. I am still very weak—but, as ever, Your affectionate friend,