common clay and sordid motives were to be left on earth.

How sudden--how awfully sudden had been the blow! True, there had been
an absence of some months in which the change had operated. But absence
is a blank, a nonentity. He had left her in apparent health, in the
time of prosperity and pride. He saw her again--stricken down in body
and temper--chastened--humbled--dying. And this being, so bright and
lofty, how had she loved him! Never had he been so loved, except in
that morning dream, haunted by the vision of the lost and dim-remembered
Alice. Never on earth could he be so loved again. The air and aspect of
the whole chamber grew to him painful and oppressive. It was full of
her--the owner! There the harp, which so well became her muse-like form
that it was associated with her like a part of herself! There the
pictures, fresh and glowing from her hand,-the grace--the harmony--the
classic and simple taste everywhere displayed.

Rousseau has left to us an immortal portrait of the lover waiting for
the first embraces of his mistress. But to wait with a pulse as
feverish, a brain as dizzy, for her last look--to await the moment of
despair, not rapture--to feel the slow and dull time as palpable a load
upon the heart, yet to shrink from your own impatience, and wish that
the agony of suspense might endure for ever--this, oh, this is a picture
of intense passion--of flesh and blood reality--of the rare and solemn
epochs of our mysterious life--which had been worthier the genius of
that "Apostle of Affliction"!

At length the door opened; the favourite attendant of Florence looked
in.

"Is Mr. Maltravers there? Oh, sir, my lady is awake and would see you."