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last moments of his life. We have both reckoned the days and hours while speaking of you: sometimes making you an angel, sometimes a devil;—I, continually persuading him to forget you,—he, constantly professing he should adore you to the grave. Your eyes bathed in tears, allow me to ask you, Why you have rendered him so miserable? and how, possessing a tender and sympathising soul, you could refuse him the consolation of seeing you, and of speaking to you for once only before he died?”
“We cannot command our hearts. M. de S. was possessed of merit, and many estimable qualities; but his gloomy, thoughtful, and despotic
