great love for him, even such love as he had for her--a faint glimmer
through the clouds of anger and recrimination. It was not there, not
one syllable to show that the heart of the writer had not turned to
ice. Yes, there was another sentence, more cruel and hopeless still:
"Do not try to change my resolution, as though it were made in a pet;
it is final--_unalterable_."

It could not be true. He looked wildly about as if to have the
terrible truth dispelled. He opened her closet door and her bureau
drawers, but the pretty, festive robes were all gone; the dainty
garments were not in their places. A little pair of half-worn
slippers, and the blue ribbon that had tied her hair were all he
found. He seized them convulsively, as a part of Vida when she was
sweet and simple--as she could be.

He sat for long hours with the letter in his hand, as one who holds
his death-warrant. Then falling upon his face, he cried to his
Helper. And He who is of great pity and tender mercies heard, and
drew nigh in the darkness and comforted him, even "as one whom his
mother comforteth," and when the morning dawned he arose and took up
the burden of life again, where he was, ere Vida Irving stole into
his heart. No, not that, it could never be the same again. When the
lightning sends his lurid bolt down a noble tree, it may not wave
green and fair as once; there will be dead branches and the gnarled
seam to tell the story that

"Fire hath scathed the forest oak."

The grave man who went out into life again carried the marks of the
conflict in sad eyes and pale cheeks. Not the least of this great