him—yes, if I see him once more before I die:—it is all I ask . . . I am so weak I can scarcely write; but my father, my dear Father, I wish to tell you all.—I will watch for him among the crowd. . . .
Tuesday Night, Belfont.
"I walked to Belfont;—and now the bitterness of death is passed.—I have seen that angel face once again—I have heard that sweeetest voice, and I can lie down, and die; for I am happy now.—He passed me; but oh! bitter bitter sight to me, he turned from me, and looked upon another.—They tell me it was my preserver and benefactress: they say, it was Lady Avondale. He looked proud of her, and happy in himself.—I am glad he looked happy; but yet I thought he turned his eyes on me, and gazed upon me once so sadly, as if in this mournful countenance and altered form, he traced the features of her whom he had once loved so well.—But no—it could not be:
