failed her, her frame shook with strong emotion, and it was some moments before she could reply.
"Ah, madam! I wish you could have witnessed the scene which I have just left. I am come from the death-bed, in hopes that you will grant the last earthly wish which seems to haunt it."
"Could you doubt one moment that I should?" interrupted Ethel: "only tell me what it is?"
"Do you remember," asked the actress, "Walter Maynard?”
"Do I remember him!" exclaimed Ethel, her eye unconsciously falling on the volume which she had just been reading, and which still lay open on the table,—"It would, indeed, be difficult to forget him."
The quick glance of the actress followed her look. "Ah!" said she, "you have been reading his works: he will write no more beautiful verses to you; for he is dying—dying, too, in miserable want!"
"My God!" cried Ethel, springing from
