you, won't you, dear? Ah! Gaston, if I should lose you now, if all this should prove but a dream- I must stop now, love. I do not feel well to-day.

ELISE.

Letter the Twelfth

SWEETHEART,-Isn't it strange, Gaston, now that I am truly free and have been released from those stone walls, that I am not nearly so happy as I thought I would be? But that is the way of everything. We revel in anticipation and repent in reality. I am afraid I felt more like crying than shouting when I found I really had to say good-by to them all, especially Jeannette. She and I were always quarrelling, and neither one of us ever realized the true affection we felt for one another until it came to parting.

What makes you beg me so to tell you I love you, when you know I do with all my heart and soul, and when my eyes, my lips, my arms, are continually speaking for me, even when I sometimes wish they would not? I could just sit with you on the banks of that little river forever and forever. I could, oh! Gaston, I could lose everything else in the world if I only had you. When I am away from you, sweetheart, I am completely miserable; nothing gives me joy unless you share in it, and when you are with me everything does. And it is so horrible to think it all must end some day. "Car il n'est si beau jour qui n'amène sa nuit," and when I reflect how true that is, love, it almost spoils my dream. No matter how bright the sky, how warm the sun, nor how green the trees, it can last only so long under God's decree, and then comes the pall of night as terribly black as the day was bright. Its embrace as chilly as the sun's was warm. will make our day of summer's lengthwill we not, dear?-and its night shall not enshroud us till your hair and mine have received the silver benediction of age, and your kisses are robbed of their warmth by the one Destiny I could bear. Ah! the angels are no happier than I, love, for I have all He can bestow.

But we

How noble and true and good and great you are, my love, and how happy you have made me! I feel a vast all-pervading contentment, Gaston, as if the whole wide world was at peace. You know how the

little river lazily ripples to the great sea in the warm days of July; how the birds are content to bury themselves in the green trees, and the cattle in the pasture lay panting under the rays of the sun, and all is heavenly quiet! Well, dear, so I feel just possessed of a blissful, delicious spirit of utterly happy rest. And you know, too, how it is when the angry wind thrashes the forest into fury and lashes the stream to a maelstrom: when the poor frightened birds twitter in terror and hurry this way and that to find refuge, and the cattle stand huddled and quivering. That was the way I felt—all deranged-when I heard of Leane d'Aulac. Ah! Gaston, that is mean of me-I do not mean it, sweetheart, truly I do

not.

Let we ask you-you have told me so often I am "heavenly beautiful” that I am even beginning to think I must be passing fair. Suppose, Gaston, this minute you and I were to enter a ball-room -a Paris ball-room-would the people there say, "She is pretty," or would they shrug their shoulders and whisper to each other, "How could he?" Oh! I wish I could see your face as you read this, because I do so want to know. We have a picture called "A Lady of the First Empire," and she and I have held many conversations about it. She would be very, very handsome but for one thing-the expression. Gaston, she does look at me so haughtily, just as if there was a fence between us, as there is at a circus, and she were the inspector and I the inspected. Are they all like that? Do they have that tired, desperate, bold look about the eyes, and that turning up of the nose and drooping down of the mouth?

I just ask you because if she is a lady, then I can't be, Gaston, that is all (not quite all, Gaston).

I am more and more frightened about papa, too. When I came in to dinner after being with you, he looked at me very steadily. I was getting ready to tell him all about it, but he looked so very determined I changed my mind. "Elise, child," he said, when I was about ready to faint under his gaze, "what has kept thee? Thou art late to thy dinner."

"I am sorry, father," I replied, very, very demurely; "I was sitting by the

river, and did not know it was so late," and then he cleared his throat. Oh! Gaston, if you knew papa you would know what a bad omen that is.

"Wert thee alone, Elise?"

Sweetheart, I actually could not tell him the truth, he looked so fearfully determined, so I said I-I was. It is the first time I have ever, ever perjured myself to him; but it meant, oh! so much to both of us-you and me, dear-and I love you so, more than I do him, I think. He did not speak again during the whole meal, and when it was finished he went immediately up stairs. Oh! I cannot understand his being so angry, at all. I am sure we have done nothing to provoke him, have we? and I must, oh! I must go with you to Paris. Till to-morrow afternoon, my beloved, adieu. ELISE.

Letter the Thirteenth

MY LOVE,-Ah! my beloved, what can I do? What will become of me, Gaston? I am locked in my room: I can see no one: Annette, the maid-servant, brings me my meals, and 'tis her I have bribed to deliver this, and who will fetch me your reply. Ah! mon Dieu, I am suffering so, am so miserably wretched. Help me, Gaston, I beseech thee, help me, for our love's sake? My brain is on fire; I am choking, I-but there! I must compose myself, so I may tell you.

Part you now know, from father, but not all. Last night, after I had posted my letter to you, there came a knock upon my door, and before I could answer, in walked papa. He shut the door behind

him and motioned to a chair. "Sit thee down," he said, more severely than I have ever known him to speak. "I wish to talk to thee."

I took the seat he pointed out, and wonderingly waited for him to begin. "Elise, child," he continued, after a long pause, 66 why didst thou tell father an untruth to-day?"

I was so abashed I could at first say nothing, and when I stammeringly began he cut me short with a wave of the hand.

"Tut! tut! thou need not make a bad matter worse. I have come not to question, but to advise thee for thy own good. Thou hast met an artist who is sojourn

ing here; thou hast exchanged letters with him. Tut! tut! child, I know. Thy messenger became too wealthy for her years and so prattled. I do not know what thy feeling is toward this Monsieur du Mesil, but in view of thy tender age it is doubtless of more credit to thy heart than thy reason. Be that as it may, his name is not one I desire linked with mine: it is a byword of the Boulevard Montmartre: it—”

Though, Gaston, I had sat dumfounded until then, I did so no longer. I cruelly doubted you once and unjustly: I shall do so no more.

""Tis false!" I cried; "'tis false! Du Mesil is a name that emblazons the grandest galleries of France, and lingers on the tongues of the most cultured-"

"I did not believe thou thought otherwise, and 'tis for that I tell thee, but 'tis no matter worthy of argument. I shall insist that my daughter see no more of him."

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"But that is impossible, father," I burst out; we love each other. We are to go to Paris, where I am to study art: I am to be his wife."

Oh! Gaston, if you had seen him then. He stood before me, white and trembling with passion: his mouth opened and shut but no word came. It was terribleoh! terrible.

"Listen to what I have to say. Twill be brief enough. Thou shalt not go to Paris: thou shalt stay in Auvergne with me and thy mother: thou shalt not marry, lest it be a man of honor; and thou shalt not study art, lest it be art of maidenly demeanor. M. du Mesil shall settle this matter with me;" and then he left me, locking the door behind him, and I am a prisoner.

Then for two hours I was nearly frenzied. He was so terribly angry I feared for you-I knew not what he would do. Ah! Gaston, then-then I truly learned how precious you are to me: how necessary you are to my happiness-nay, to my very life. God forgive me that I thought almost solely of you, for he is my father, but I was not then conscious of it-I saw only you. Then, when I despaired of my reason, I heard his step upon the stair. Creaking it ascended: nearer to my door it came-nearer and stopped.

"I have seen du Mesil," he said,

through the key-hole; "he leaves for the city to-morrow night."

"It is not true," I replied; but he made no answer, and went away. Gaston, is it true? What do you mean by leaving me the very moment I need you most? Is this your love for me-the passionate, soul- possessing devotion you swore? Is this the protection you were ever to grant me? I cannot believe you are really going. It is so unlike you; but if you are, oh! take me with you. I implore you-on my knees I beseech youtake me.

Gaston, if you go out of my life like that, it will be but an empty shell. I shall not care to live for what would be left for me when you are gone. Gaston, you taught me to love you, and I have given you my heart, my very soul. I cannot live without you. I will not. Gaston, I would ask so little-only a kiss occasionally: a tender word: a loving pressure of your hand, and for that I would be your slave. Ah! my love, you are not going without me-you cannot be so cruel. Ah! Dieu! I love you, love you, love you so. Do not do this thing, I implore you. Take me to the Quartier Latin, to the end of the world, but take me-oh! for the love of Heaven, take me.

ELISE.

Letter the Fourteenth

MY DEAR GASTON,-And were you really such a goose as to believe I was afraid of your going off and leaving me behind? Indeed, I had no such idea; and if I had, do you suppose I would have gone down on my knees to beg? Ah! Gaston dear, you may be a very great painter, but you have much to learn about women.

It was very sweet and thoughtful of you to stop in the middle of your work and rush back to the city so the atelier might be ready for my coming, but, sweetheart, do not spend too much time upon it, because I am not at all sure I shall go to Paris. Indeed, I rather think I shall not. You see, it is so noisy and dirty there. I really believe I prefer Auvergne.

Gaston, you had best not go to too much trouble about the atelier. Father, you see, does so disapprove, and he has been so good to me; and then, mother—I do not know what she would ever do if I were not here to help.

GASTON,-Have you forgotten so soon? Do you not want me to come, sweetheart? Ah! why did you tell me you loved me, if you did not mean it?

What do you mean, Gaston, by telling me to stay here if I so desire, when you know I am grieving to be with you?

I cannot stay here. My heart is breaking. Everywhere I go I am reminded of you: at every turn something whispers your name. Why will you not let me be happy, Gaston, when it is so easy? Ah! my beloved, let me flee to your arms—it is all I ask. Gaston dear, we never know when we shall be taken from each other, so why be unhappy now?

Are you offended at my last letter? Darling, could you not see through so pitiable a subterfuge? Ah! if you only knew how hard it was to write so when everything in me cried out-" I love you, love you, love you." Oh! I am so sorry, dear. I will not do so any more-truly, truly I will not. Surely you are not to punish me so cruelly for so small a thing? You must not, Gaston.

What can I do without you, love? What will there be left in my life?

Why did you not take me with you? I would not have minded about the atelier. I could have gone anywhere until it was finished.

Why will you do this thing? You tell me I am pretty-is a kind word, a strong caress, too great a gift for beauty? Oh! take me, Gaston-let me slave for you and be near you.

If you do not I do not know what I shall do. I know only one thing-“ I love you," because you taught me to. I did not love you at first: I cannot tell when I began, but I love you so now that there is nothing else in the world for me but you that or death.

Oh! Gaston, do not think that is a threat, love. It is simply the dernier ressort: the one sweet ease I could find. Gaston! Gaston, my darling! oh! tell me I may come. E.