EVELYN. The letter was just concluded, when a gentle tap at the door caused the writer’s heart to give one bound, and then almost to cease beating. Evelyn withdrew the bolt—for she must speak with Ella. The young girl threw herself on her mother’s neck; but that mother’s kiss was cold, for the first time—and, as she felt the soft contact of her child’s pure lips, almost a shudder passed through her frame. Ah! wherefore did the shadow of _that man_ come between those two! And Ella knelt at her mother’s feet, an unconscious rival; and as the latter, faint and sick at heart, leaned back in her _fauteuil_, she held the poor burning hand in her cool fresh palm, and poured out before her mother all the thoughts and feelings of her innocent, loving heart. She told how D’Arcy loved her, how kind he was, how clever—far too wise and clever for her, how could he think of such a child? True, Lilian had told him, or it could never have been; but her dear mother must teach her to become wise, worthy of him, that he may not think her foolish—“But oh! my own, own mama, I never, never will marry and leave you all alone. I told Mr. D’Arcy so. Never till you are a duchess, you know,” kissing her hand, “for though I like him very much, I never shall love him like my own sweet mother; how could I!” Alas! poor Evelyn; bitterly did thy heart reproach thee that thou couldst not feel as the tender maiden at thy feet—that thy now guilty love still glowed in thy tortured heart, as in a furnace, to the exclusion of each gentle and more holy sentiment. Unhappy mother! she could scarce support the presence of her child now. “Dear girl,” she said, with an effort, “be happy. I have written to accept M. di Balzano.”—Ella made a movement of delight. “Bless you, darling, now leave me. Take that letter and see that it is sent. I would be alone, my head aches terribly.” A true woman’s excuse, but in our heroine’s case not a fictitious one. Once more left to her own sad thoughts, Evelyn endeavored to realize her painful position. It was necessary to meet D’Arcy; to show him that she consented, nay, that she was even happy, in the idea of his union with another, and that other her own daughter. “Alas!” she repeated to herself, “To love thee dumbly, nor by look or word To break the silence set upon my soul, To crush the voice that struggles to be heard, To gaze unmoved on the forbidden goal. “To sit and look into thine eyes, and yearn To tell thee all my closely hoarded thought, And still to know that I must calmly learn To meet thy gaze, and yet to utter naught “To know there is no hope; hourly to feel That Destiny forbids a word, a breath; This bitter fate is mine, until the seal Is broken, by the welcome hand of death.”