to submit, in sad and gentle acquiescence, to her fate.  Those feelings, which had been the charm of her young days, were gone, and, as she bitterly felt, forever.  For them there was no recall they could not return; and, without complaint or reproach, she yielded to what she felt was inevitable.  It was impossible to look at Mrs. Marston, and not to discern, at a glance, the ruin of a surpassingly beautiful woman; a good deal wasted, pale, and chastened with a deep, untold sorrow, but still possessing the outlines, both in face and form, of that noble beauty and matchless grace, which had made her, in happier days, the admired of all observers.  But equally impossible was it to converse with her, for even a minute, without hearing, in the gentle and melancholy music of her voice, the sad echoes of those griefs to which her early beauty had been sacrificed, an undying sense of lost love, and happiness departed, never to come again.

One morning, Mr. Marston had walked, as was his custom when he expected the messenger who brought from the neighboring post office his letters, some way down the broad, straight avenue, with its double rows of lofty trees at each side, when he encountered the nimble emissary on his return.  He took the letter-bag in silence.  It contained but two letters—­one addressed to “Mademoiselle de Barras, chez M. Marston,” and the other to himself.  He took them both, dismissed the messenger, and opening that addressed to himself, read as follows, while he slowly retraced his steps towards the house:—­

Dear Richard,

I am a whimsical fellow, as you doubtless remember, and have lately grown, they tell me, rather hippish besides.  I do not know to which infirmity I am to attribute a sudden fancy that urges me to pay you a visit, if you will admit me.  To say truth, my dear Dick, I wish to see a little of your part of the world, and, I will confess it, en passant, to see a little of you too.  I really wish to make acquaintance with your family; and though they tell me my health is very much shaken, I must say, in self-defense, I am not a troublesome inmate.  I can perfectly take care of myself, and need no nursing or caudling whatever.  Will you present this, my petition, to Mrs. Marston, and report her decision thereon to me.  Seriously, I know that your house may be full, or some other contretemps may make it impracticable for me just now to invade you.  If it be so, tell me, my dear Richard, frankly, as my movements are perfectly free, and my time all my own, so that I can arrange my visit to suit your convenience.

—­Yours, &c.,

WYNSTON E. BERKLEY

P.S.—­Direct to me at ——­ Hotel, in Chester, as I shall probably be there by the time this reaches you.