gerous, and sometimes killed. Now, I think yours is the last, Miss Nell. Not that you've any call to look out for sorrow that way; things 'll go straight enough, never fear, for he loves you as the very apple of his eye."
"Does love keep off misfortune?" I ask, as I get up from my seat; "it seems to me that those who love least come off best."
My restless feet have brought me into the nursery, and now they carry me out again. All day long I wander hither and thither, to and fro, and can settle to nothing, think of nothing, save Paul. I go downstairs and search the newspapers of the past week through and through, those useless ugly papers that come every day regular as the clock, while my eagerly looked for letter comes never. How I dread the sound of the postman's knock and ring, how I shiver as Simpkins places the bag upon the table beside me, how plainly I see his alert look at me as he leaves the room (he knows what I am looking for as well as I know myself!) How my heart sinks as I unlock it and take out the letters, some for mother, one or two for me, welcome enough at any other time, but a hateful mockery to me now! Other people's letters come safely enough—why should not his?
In to-day's paper I come upon the account of an Englishman murdered at Florence. Perchance some woman looked out long and vainly for news of him, as I am looking now. Perhaps her soul sickened within her with dread, just as mine does, only God grant the awakening from my night of dread may not be even as hers! I wonder why, when our friends disappear from our ken in any unaccountable way, we always think they are dead? That is always the dread boundary to which our thoughts fly, that, the only sure and certain thing that can come to us in this life, is the theme of our sharpest fears. Neglect, loss of love, illness, misfortune, all pale before the ghastly visage of the "king of terrors." "Take everything else," we cry; "leave us naked,
