as one whom you will not blush to have loved--whom you will not blush
hereafter to present to your wife. With so much that is soft, as well
as great within you, you were not formed like me--to be alone.

"FAREWELL!"


Maltravers read, and re-read this letter; and when he reached his home,
he placed it carefully amongst the things he most valued. A lock of
Alice's hair lay beside it--he did not think that either was dishonoured
by the contact.

With an effort, he turned himself once more to those stern yet high
connections which literature makes with real life. Perhaps there was a
certain restlessness in his heart which induced him ever to occupy his
mind. That was one of the busiest years of his life--the one in which
he did most to sharpen jealousy and confirm fame.



CHAPTER XII.

"In effect he entered my apartment."--/Gil Blas/.

"'I am surprised,' said he, 'at the caprice of Fortune,
who sometimes delights in loading an execrable author
with favours, whilst she leaves good writers to perish
for want.'"--/Gil Blas/.

IT was just twelve months after his last interview with Valerie, and