[Mabel was reading very fast, her eyes hurrying from side to side of

the page, her face blanching, and her hands more numb with every

word.] "The above is a verbatim copy of that portion of my friend's letter

which pertains to your affair," continued Mr. Aylett. "I shall write

to Mrs. Sutton's protege by the mail that carries this, informing

him of my opportune discovery, through no instrumentality of his

providing, of the poverty of his claims to the title of gentleman,

and the audacity of his pretensions to my sister's hand. Have what

letters, etc., you have received from him ready packed to return to

his address when I come home. My principal regret, in the review of

the unfortunate entanglement, is that he ever visited Ridgeley and

was known in the vicinity as your suitor. You will suffer from this,

in the future, more than you can now suppose. A woman hardly ever

outlives such a stigma.

"You may expect me on Thursday next, the 21st, at which time I hope

to see most of the alterations I have ordered in an encouraging

state of forwardness. Should Jenkyns be in town when you get this,

write out my directions clearly and in full, and send them, with

sample of damask, by mail.

"Your affectionate brother, "WINSTON AYLETT"

The clammy, nerveless hands dropped--the fatal sheet below

them--into Mabel's lap. She did not cry out or moan. Things stricken

to the heart generally fall dumbly. It was not her cramped position

within the window-seat that paralyzed her limbs, nor the chill of

the twilight that crept through vein and bone. For one sick second

she believed herself to be dying, and would not have stirred a

muscle or spoken a syllable to save the life which had suddenly

grown worthless--worthless, since she was never to see Frederic

again; be no more to him than if she had never laid her head upon

his bosom; never felt his kisses upon lip and forehead; never lived

upon his words of love as rapt mortals, admitted in trances to the

banquet of the gods, eat ambrosia, and drink to divinest ecstacy of

nectar--the elixir of immortal life and joy, sparkling in golden

chalices.

She had had her dream--ravishing and brief--but the awakening was

terrible as the struggle back to life from a swoon or deathful

lethargy. As to thinking, I believe nobody thinks at such seasons.

Nature shrinks in speechless horror at sight of the descending

weight, and when it has fallen, lies motionless, gasping in breath

to enable her to support the intolerable anguish, not speculating

how to avert the next stroke. Frederic and she were parted! Had not

Winston said so! And when was he known to reverse a verdict! She had

nothing to do but sit still and let the waters go over her head.




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