truth. It was no girl of flesh and blood had secured his heart, but some mere creation of his disordered fancy."
Utis here paused in his narration, and said with some hesitation,—
"I am about to put a question of some delicacy. But, be assured, it is from no mere curiosity I inquire. I could have obtained the information otherwise, but forbore to pry, even in your interest, into what, though an illusion, may be to you a sacred recess of your consciousness. Do you really cherish in your heart the memory of one fair to you and dear beyond all others?"
"Yes, I have such a memory."
"May I ask her name?"
"Edith Alston."
"In what way was your love unhappy?"
"We parted in anger. Or, to be more correct as well as just, I was angry, and put myself utterly in the wrong."
Utis reflected for a moment, then said,—
"Have I your permission to impart this confidence to Osna Diotha? She is deeply interested in the matter."
Though unable to see how a perfect stranger could have an interest in what I imagined was so peculiarly my own affair, I consented to my host's proposal, the more readily from having no real conviction of the objective existence of such personages as those alluded to. The facts in regard to Edith Alston and myself were probably known—or partially so—to many besides my mother and sister; though I had never discussed the matter, even with them. Yet they perfectly understood the reason of my sudden departure for Europe—alone. A year of rest-
