now, that the cause most strongly influencing me was the desire to look upon your face and feel the thrilling touch of your hand once more.  Perhaps it is well he was absent, for I am not so sure that his cooler judgment would have seen sufficient cause for the act.  All is going on now just as he, and I, and all concerned, could wish; and not for the world would I have him know, at present, our secret.  Stolen waters, they say, are sweet.  I know not.  But that brief, stolen interview at the fountain, was full of sweetness to me.  You looked the very Naiad of the place—­pure, spiritual, the embodiment of all things lovely.  Forgive this warmth of feeling.  I would not wound the instinctive delicacy of a heart like yours.  Only believe me sincere.  Will you not write to me?  Direct your letters, under cover, to D. C. L., Baltimore P. O., and they will be immediately forwarded.  I will write you weekly.  The same hand that conveys this, will see that my letters reach you.  Farewell, beloved one!

Lee Lyon.”

Five times did Fanny attempt to answer this, and as often were her letters destroyed by her own hands.  Her sixth, if not more to her own satisfaction, she sealed, and subscribed as directed.  It read thus: 

“Mr. Lee Lyon:—­My dear sir—­Your unexpected visit, and equally unexpected letter, have bewildered and distressed me.  You enjoin a continued silence in regard to your return from the South.  Oh, sir! remove that injunction as quickly as possible; for every hour that it remains, increases my unhappiness.  You have separated between me and my good mother,—­you are holding me back from throwing myself on her bosom, and letting her see every thought of my soul.  I cannot very long endure the present.  Why not at once write to my father, and explain all to him?  He must know that you came back, and the sooner, it seems to me, will be the better.  If I do not betray the fact, waking, I shall surely do it in my sleep; for I think of it all the time.  Mother surprised me while reading your letter.  I am afraid she saw it in my hand.  She importuned me to give her my full confidence; and to refuse was one of the hardest trials of my life.  I feel that I am changing under this new, painful experience.  The ordeal is too fiery.  If it continues much longer, I shall cease to be what I was when you were here; and you will find me, on your return, so changed as to be no longer worthy of your love.  Oh, sir! pity the child you have awakened from a peaceful, happy dream, into a real life of mingled pain and joy.  From the cup you have placed to my lips, I drink with an eager thirst.  The draught is delicious to the taste, but it intoxicates—­nay, maddens me!

“Write back to me at once, dear Mr. Lyon!  I shall count the minutes as hours, until your letter comes.  Let the first words be—­’Tell all to your mother.’  If you cannot write this, we must be as strangers, for I will not bind myself to a man who would make me untrue to my parents.  You say that you love me.  Love seeks another’s happiness.  If you really love me, seek my happiness.