prevalent in that department of newspaper literature, but all according her the most exalted merit.  The tragedies involving the intense domestic affections were those she had selected for her roles.  Romeo and Juliet, Evadne, Douglas, Venice Preserved, and others of that class, were mentioned.  The critics, however, devoted their most enthusiastic encomiums to her performance of Imogen in Shakspeare’s Cymbeline, a version of which, it seems, she had herself adapted.  The reproduction of this piece, which had vanished from the modern repertoire, attracted marked attention.  Her rendering of ’Imogen’—­was pronounced superb.

The papers also made passing allusions to her personal beauty.  Soon paragraphs appeared concerning the attentions of Lord A——­ and the Earl of B——­ to her; of the infatuation of certain members of the various diplomatic corps.  Young men of fashion were reported as throwing to her bouquets containing diamonds; others sent horses and carriages to her residence, with requests for her acceptance.  One paper alluded maliciously to the fact that a certain antiquated nobleman had given her a New Year’s present of bon bons, every ‘sugared particle’ being folded in a five-pound Bank of England note.  The paper added some rough witticism, and informed the nobleman that his ‘assiduities’ would be ineffectual, saying that ’the lady, with true Yankee shrewdness, accepts all offerings at her shrine, but confers no favors in return.’

So the season wore away until the Spring had again come around.  I saw an announcement in a New York paper that Evelyn Afton (her maiden name), who had recently acquired such a brilliant reputation in London, etc., would perform during a short engagement at the Park Theatre.  The next morning saw me on the route to New York.  I placed myself in an obscure corner of the theatre.  The curtain rose.  There was a brief absence of all consciousness, and then she came upon the stage.  The play was Cymbeline.  I know nothing of what transpired, save that when she rendered the words,—­

  ’Oh for a horse with wings,’—­

that light again appeared in her eyes.

The performance ended, and a man, feeling himself old and weary, passed into the streets, and wandered through them till morning, wondering if he had not in some way been connected with the brilliant being he had seen; it seemed to him that once there had been some entwining of their fates, but the recollection of it came like the indistinct memory of a half-impressed dream,—­as if it had been in some previous condition of existence, and the consciousness of it had lingered through a subsequent metempsychosis.

* * * * *

I was sitting solitary in an apartment of the humble dwelling which I occupied, poring in a slow, melancholy memory over my past life, and questioning myself when Evelyn would fulfil the promise of again informing me of her intentions.  My mood was scarcely disturbed by a knock at the outer door, which was responded to by the maid who had charge of my children, and the next instant I was thrilled almost to stupefaction by seeing Evelyn enter the room.