As the time drew near when I should return to Paris, grief, and hope, and that strange reluctance which would fain defer the thing it most desires, perplexed and troubled me by day and night.  Once again on the road, the past seemed more than ever dream-like, and Paris and Saxonholme became confused together in my mind, like the mingling outlines of two dissolving views.

I crossed the channel this time in a thick, misting rain; pushed on straight for Paris, and reached the Cite Bergere in the midst of a warm and glowing afternoon.  The great streets were crowded with carriages and foot-passengers.  The trees were in their fullest leaf.  The sun poured down on pavement and awning with almost tropical intensity.  I dismissed my cab at the top of the Rue du Faubourg Montmatre, and went up to the house on foot.  A flower-girl sat in the shade of the archway, tying up her flowers for the evening-sale, and I bought a cluster of white roses for Hortense as I went by.

Madame Bouisse was sound asleep in her little sanctum; but my key hung in its old place, so I took it without disturbing her, and went up as if I had been away only a few hours.  Arrived at the third story, I stopped outside Hortense’s door and listened.  All was very silent within.  She was out, perhaps; or writing quietly in the farther chamber.  I thought I would leave my travelling-bag in my own room, and then ring boldly for admittance.  I turned the key, and found myself once again in my own familiar, pleasant student home.  The books and busts were there in their accustomed places; everything was as I had left it.  Everything, except the picture!  The picture was gone; so Hortense had accepted it.

Three letters awaited me on the table; one from Dr. Cheron, written in a bold hand—­a mere note of condolence:  one from Dalrymple, dated Chamounix:  the third from Hortense.  I knew it was from her.  I knew that that small, clear, upright writing, so singularly distinct and regular, could be only hers.  I had never seen it before; but my heart identified it.

That letter contained my fate.  I took it up, laid it down, paced backwards and forwards, and for several minutes dared not break the seal.  At length I opened it.  It ran thus:—­

“FRIEND AND FELLOW-STUDENT.

“I had hoped that a man such as you and a woman such as I might become true friends, discuss books and projects, give and take the lesser services of life, and yet not end by loving.  In this belief, despite occasional misgivings, I have suffered our intercourse to become intimacy—­our acquaintance, friendship.  I see now that I was mistaken, and now, when it is, alas! too late, I reproach myself for the consequences of that mistake.

“I can be nothing to you, friend.  I have duties in life more sacred than marriage.  I have a task to fulfil which is sterner than love, and imperative as fate.  I do not say that to answer you thus costs me no pain.  Were there even hope, I would bid you hope; but my labor presses heavily upon me, and repeated failure has left me weary and heart-sick.