There is not in this world of sin A soul so deeply sunk therein, Thronged though it be with crimes and cares, Revenges, malices, despairs, However dire the phantoms there, However pestilent its air— But in its thoroughfares, night and day, There ever is some golden ray, Like a sweet child from home astray— Some light of Heaven, some fragment thence Of primal love and innocence, Which keeps the angels on its track To lure and win and lead it back. —WM. H. HOLCOMBE. “We lived at the best hotels in every town and city where we stopped, but we never stayed long at any place. Saviola was too successful a gambler for that. “He was always kind to me, and would have loaded me with jewels and costly dress, but that I would have none of them, for my soul was troubled by the way in which he made his money—a way that he no longer tried to conceal from me. “I had periodical fits of homesickness, during which I wrote to my father and to my teachers, but without in any instance receiving a reply. Then I would write again and again, with no better result. And finally I would give up hoping to hear from them, and try to resign myself to my fate; until my next attack of homesickness would set my pen in motion again. “Later on, not homesickness alone, but remorse and despair and terror seized me. I was beginning to lose all hope of ever being forgiven by my father; and, ah me! I was also beginning to lose esteem for my husband, for whose sake I had left all my friends and relations. “Luigi was still fond of me in that way that a child is fond of a favorite toy of which he is not yet tired. “I had discovered my own self-deception. “Other young girls have come to grief and death through their deception by others. I had only myself to blame! Myself had only deceived me. But it was bitter! oh, how bitter! to find out that the hero, martyr, patriot and humanitarian I had imagined, was only a very handsome young gambler, who was not too honest or truthful! “My undeceived soul sickened at him and at myself! “My very last attack of homesickness found us at Geneva, where we had an elegant suit of apartments in the Hotel Beau Rivage. “Again in one day I wrote five letters to absent friends—to my father, to Miss Murray, to Madame de la Champe, to Dr. Alexander, and to the Rev. Mr. Clement. From some of these I should surely get an answer. But week after week passed and no answer came to me. “In the second month after our arrival at Geneva, Saviola was suddenly called to Paris—on imperative business, he said; but I had learned to distrust. I could not accompany him—my state of health utterly precluded the idea of my traveling. He took a very affectionate leave of me, and promised to be back again in a few days.