Maltravers sat himself quietly down. Before him, on a table, lay
several manuscript books, gaily and gorgeously bound; he mechanically
opened them. Florence's fair, noble Italian characters met his eye in
every page. Her rich and active mind, her love for poetry, her thirst
for knowledge, her indulgence of deep thought, spoke from those pages
like the ghosts of herself. Often, underscored with the marks of her
approbation, he chanced upon extracts from his own works, sometimes upon
reflections by the writer herself, not inferior in truth and depth to
his own; snatches of wild verse never completed, but of a power and
energy beyond the delicate grace of lady-poets; brief, vigorous
criticisms on books, above the common holiday studies of the sex;
indignant and sarcastic aphorisms on the real world, with high and sad
bursts of feeling upon the ideal one; all chequering and enriching the
various volumes, told of the rare gifts with which this singular girl
was endowed--a herbal, as it were, of withered blossoms that might have
borne Hesperian fruits. And sometimes in these outpourings of the full
mind and laden heart were allusions to himself, so tender and so
touching--the pencilled outline of his features, traced by memory in a
thousand aspects--the reference to former interviews and
conversations--the dates and hours marked with a woman's minute and
treasuring care!--all these tokens of genius and of love spoke to him
with a voice that said, "And this creature is lost to you, forever: you
never appreciated her till the time for her departure was irrevocably
fixed!"

Maltravers uttered a deep groan; all the past rushed over him. Her
romantic passion for one yet unknown--her interest in his glory--her
zeal for his life of life, his spotless and haughty name. It was as if
with her, Fame and Ambition were dying also, and henceforth nothing but