I ran with it to Gabriel; I could not read it alone. "A letter," was
all I said, and we read it in the bay-window, standing side by side.
"Emilia, dearest, you have given me so much, and now I have
sinned against you. You forgave me with your lips just now;
forgive me with your heart when I am dead. You must not
blame me for what I do, you know I was always very weak; I
cannot look you in the eyes again, nor him. God will forgive
me, I think. Good-bye. Be happy,--neither you nor he must
grieve for me; it is a poor little life that I throw away,
and all the good I ever knew came from you or him. Be
happy--Emilia, my old Emilia, good-bye."
She was found towards evening, many miles from Miltonhoe, on the
banks of the Avon. Gabriel and I had been up and down the land all
day, following her traces.
When we heard that she was found, we parted.
THE END.
* * * * *
AN AUTHOR'S LOVE.
_Being the Unpublished Letters of_
PROSPER MERIMEE'S "INCONNUE."
Cloth. $1.00.
"The capriciousness, the coquetry, the tenderness,--the womanliness,
in short, which makes the letters in 'An Author's Love' so charming,
reconcile you to the audacity which has dared to assume the feminine
side of this world-famous correspondence.
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