were in vain. At length, in hopes of escaping from reflections so fraught with bitterness, he opened the letter, which ran thus:
"Dear Mr. Evelyn,
"For as I mean to claim the privilege of an old friend, I shall not abate one atom of our former kindly feeling,—I give you full permission to be as much surprised as you please at my thus addressing you, provided to surprise you add patience, and read my letter with the attention which I can assure you it deserves. I write in the earnest wish to promote your happiness—a little for your own sake, but still more for that of another. That other is my nearest and dearest friend, whom you knew as Francesca Carrara."
At the sight of that name, which had been so long absent from all save the depths of his own memory, the page dropped from his hand—he rose from his seat, and began to pace the room hurriedly; and when he again resumed the perusal, the added paleness of his brow, the blood upon his bitten lip, belied the forced composure with which he took up the paper. It continued as follows:
"She is ignorant of my writing—I would not tell her—for your faith has been severely tried, and may have changed. Should another, there-
