"The story of the murder again revived; the life you led, the letters themselves revealing it; the orphan child robbed of her inheritance; the imposture of your existence abroad here!--what variety in the scenes!

what diversity in the interests!"

"I am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul," said she, in a voice low and collected.

"Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are wrecking your last hope of safety?" cried he, insolently. "Is it not plain to you that you are a fool to insult the hand that can crush you?"

"But I _am_ crushed; I can fall no lower," whispered she, tremulously.

"Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the past!"

"I cannot--I cannot!" burst she out, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "I have done all I could, but I cannot!"

"If you only knew how I was tempted to it, Loo! If you but heard the snare that was laid for me!"

A scornful toss of her head was all her answer.

"It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you that I seek this reparation, Loo," said he, eagerly. "When I speak otherwise, it is my passion gives utterance to the words. My heart is, however, true to you."

"Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I tell you again, I am not rich, but I will pay largely, liberally here."

"Let me confess it, Loo," said he, in a trembling tone, "these letters are the one last link between us. It is not for a menace I would keep them,--so help me Heaven, the hour of _your_ shame would be that of _my_ death,--but I cling to them as the one tie that binds my fate to yours.

I feel that when I surrender them, that tie is broken; that I am nothing to you; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see me pass without a notice. Bethink you, then, that you ask me for what alone attaches me to existence."

"I cannot understand such reasonings," said she, coldly. "These letters have no other value save the ruin they can work me. If not employed to that end, they might as well blacken in the fire or moulder into dust You tell me you are not in search of any vengeance on me, and it is much to say, for I never injured you, while you have deeply injured _me_.

Why, therefore, not give up what you own to be so useless?"

"For the very reason I have given you, Loo; that, so long as I hold them, I have my interest in your heart, and you cannot cease to feel bound up with my destiny."

"And is not this vengeance?" asked she, quietly. "Can you picture to your mind a revenge more cruel, living on from day to day, and gathering force from time?"

"But to me there is ever the hope that the past might come back again."

"Never--never!" said she, resolutely. "The man who has corrupted a woman's heart may own as much of it as can feel love for him; but he who has held up to shame the dishonor he has provoked must be satisfied with her loathing and her hate."

"And you tell me that these are my portion?" said he, sternly.

"Your conscience can answer how you have earned them."

They walked along side by side in silence for some time, and at last she said, "How much better, for both of us, to avoid words of passion or remembrances of long ago."

"You loved me once, Loo," broke he in, with deep emotion.

"And if I once contracted a debt which I could not pay you now, would you insult me for my poverty, or persecute me? I do not think so, Ludlow."

"And when I have given them to you, Loo, and they are in your hands, how are we to meet again? Are we to be as utter strangers to each other?"

said he, in deep agitation.

"Yes," replied she, "it is as such we must be. There is no hardship in this; or, if there be, only what one feels in seeing the house he once lived in occupied by another,--a passing pang, perhaps, but no more."

"How you are changed, Loo!" cried he.

"How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud with winter!

and the same folly were it for us not to change as life wears on. Our spring is past, Ludlow."

"But I could bear all if you were not changed to me," cried he, passionately.

"Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do not know myself," said she.

"I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this, Loo," said he, sorrowfully; "how you accuse me of being the great misfortune of your life. Is it not so?"

"Who can answer this better than yourself?" cried she, bitterly.

"And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my existence to be otherwise? Did I not venture everything for your love?"

"If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of this. You have it in your power to do me a great service, or work me a great injury; for the first, I mean to be more than grateful; that is, I would pay all I could command; for the last, your recompense must be in the hate you bear me. Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future as best I may."

"There is one other alternative, Loo, which you have forgotten."

"What is it?"

"Can you not forgive me?" said he, almost sobbing as he spoke.

"I cannot,--I cannot," said she. "You ask me for more than any human heart could yield. All that the world can heap upon me of contempt would be as nothing to what I should feel for myself if I stooped to that.

No, no; follow out your vengeance if it must be, but spare me to my own heart."

"Do you know the insults you cast upon me?" cried he, savagely. "Are you aware that it is to my own ears you speak these words?"

"Do not quarrel with me because I deal honestly by you," said she, firmly. "I will not promise that I cannot pay. Remember, too, Ludlow, that what I ask of you I do not ask from your generosity. I make no claim to what I have forfeited all right. I simply demand the price you set upon a certain article of which to _me_ the possession is more than life. I make no concealment from you. I own it frankly--openly."

"You want your letters, and never to hear more of _me_!" said he, sternly.

"What sum will you take for them?" said she, in a slow, whispering voice.

"You ask what will enable you to set me at defiance forever, Loo! Say it frankly and fairly. You want to tear your bond and be free."

She did not speak, and he went on,--

"And you can ask this of the man you abhor! you can stoop to solicit him whom, of all on earth, you hate the most!"

Still she was silent.

"Well," said he, after a lengthened pause, "you shall have them. I will restore them to you. I have not got them here,--they are in England,--but I will fetch them. My word on it that I will keep my pledge. I see," added he, after an interval, in which he expected she would speak, but was still silent,--"I see how little faith you repose in a promise. You cannot spare one word of thanks for what you regard as so uncertain; but I can endure this, for I have borne worse. Once more, then, I swear to you, you shall have your letters back. I will place them myself in your hands, and before witnesses too. Remember that, Loo--before witnesses!" And with these words, uttered with a sort of savage energy, he turned away from her, and was soon lost in the crowd.

"I have followed you this hour, Loo," said a low voice beside her.

She turned and took the speaker's arm, trembling all over, and scarcely able to keep from falling.

"Take me away, father,--take me away from this," said she, faintly. "I feel very ill."