perhaps, the whole complexion of the future. I am now going to Emily to
propose to her to fly. We are not _les gens du monde_, who are ruined by
the loss of public opinion. She has felt that I can be to her far more
than the world; and as for me, what would I not forfeit for one touch of
her hand?



EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF LADY EMILY MANDEVILLE.

Friday.--Since I wrote yesterday in these pages the narrative of our
escape, I have done nothing but think over those moments, too dangerous
because too dear; but at last I have steeled my heart--I have yielded to
my own weakness too long--I shudder at the abyss from which I have
escaped. I can yet fly. He will come here to-day--he shall receive my
farewell.

Saturday morning, four o'clock.--I have sat in this room alone since
eleven o'clock. I cannot give vent to my feelings; they seem as if
crushed by some load from which it is impossible to rise. "He is gone,
and for ever!" I sit repeating those words to myself, scarcely conscious
of their meaning. Alas! when to-morrow comes, and the next day, and the
next, and yet I see him not, I shall awaken, indeed, to all the agony of
my loss! He came here--he saw me alone--he implored me to fly. I did
not dare to meet his eyes; I hardened my heart against his voice. I knew
the part I was to take--I have adopted it; but what struggles, what
misery, has it not occasioned me! Who could have thought it had been so
hard to be virtuous! His eloquence drove me from one defence to another,
and then I had none but his mercy. I opened my heart--I showed him its
weakness--I implored his forbearance. My tears, my anguish, convinced