the seams in it, which, as wires, led straight from where he sat to the connecting door, and disappeared beneath it into the chamber of Isabel; that he started at a tap at that very door, followed by the wonted, low, sweet voice:
'Pierre! a letter for thee—dost thou hear? a letter,—may I come in?'
At once he felt a dart of surprise and apprehension; for he was precisely in that general condition with respect to the outer world, that he could not reasonably look for any tidings but disastrous, or at least, unwelcome ones. He assented; and Isabel entered, holding out the billet in her hand.
''Tis from some lady, Pierre; who can it be?—not thy mother though, of that I am certain;—the expression of her face, as seen by me, not at all answering to the expression of this handwriting here.'
'My mother? from my mother?' muttered Pierre, in wild vacancy—'no! no! it can scarce be from her.—Oh, she writes no more, even in her own private tablets now! Death hath stolen the last leaf, and rubbed all out, to scribble his own ineffaceable hic jacet there!'
'Pierre!' cried Isabel, in affright.
'Give it me!' he shouted, vehemently, extending his hand. 'Forgive me, sweet, sweet Isabel, I have wandered in my mind; this book makes me mad. There; I have it now'—in a tone of indifference—'now, leave me again. It is from some pretty aunt, or cousin, I suppose,' carelessly balancing the letter in his hand.
Isabel quitted the room; the moment the door closed upon her, Pierre eagerly split open the letter, and read:—
II
'This morning I vowed it, my own dearest, dearest Pierre. I feel stronger to-day; for to-day I have still
