"I got away," he continued, throwing back his head, and looking vacantly at the ceiling--"I got away, and came here, and the next day I got a letter about my uncle's death and my legacy. I had no sorrow for my poor dear old uncle, and no joy over my fortune. I had no thought for any thing but Louie. Seven thousand a year, or ten thousand, or a hundred thousand, whatever it might be, it amounts to nothing. What I have gained is nothing to what I have lost. I'd give it all for Louie, I'd give it all to undo what has been done. I'd give it all, by Heaven, for one more sight of her! But that sight of her I can never have. I dare not go near the house. I am afraid to hear about her. My legacy! I wish it were at the bottom of the Atlantic. What is it all to me, if I have to give up Louie forever? And that's what it is!" There was no exaggeration in all this. That was evident Jack's misery was real, and was manifest in his pale face and general change of manner. This accounted for it all. This was the blow that had struck him down. All his other troubles had been laughable compared with this. But from this he could not rally. Nor, for my part, did I know of any consolation that could be offered. Now, for the first time, I saw the true nature of his sentiments toward Louie, and learned from him the sentiments of that poor little thing toward him. It was the old story. They had been altogether too much with one another. They had been great friends, and all that sort of thing. Louie had teased and given good advice. Jack had sought consolation for all his troubles. And now--lo and behold!--in one moment each had made the awful discovery that their supposed friendship was something far more tender and far-reaching. "I'll never see her again!" sighed Jack. "Who?" said I. "The widow?" "The widow!" exclaimed Jack, contemptuously; "no--poor little Louie!" "But you'll see the widow?" "Oh, yes," said Jack, dryly. "I'll have to be there." "Why not kick it all up, and go home on leave of absence?" Jack shook his head despairingly. "No chance," he muttered--"not a ghost of a one. My sentence is pronounced; I must go to execution. It's my own doing, too. I've given my own word." "Next Tuesday?" "Next Tuesday." "Where?" "St. Malachi's." "Oh, it will be at church, then?" "Yes." "Who's the parson?" "Oh, old Fletcher." "At what time?" "Twelve; and see here, Macrorie, you'll stand by a fellow--of course --won't you? see me off--you know--adjust the noose, watch the drop fall--and see poor Jack Randolph launched into--matrimony!" "Oh, of course." Silence followed, and soon I took my departure, leaving Jack to _his meditations and his despair_. CHAPTER XXXVI.