nothing more than one of those vehement and headstrong fancies, which, in
self-indulgent men, sometimes result in marriage, and which seldom
outlive the first few months of that life-long connection. Mrs. Marston
was a gentle, noble-minded woman. After agonies or disappointment, which
none ever suspected, she had at length learned 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,