STRANGER THAN FICTION.
By Henrietta E. Page.
[Concluded.]
"Yes, raving mad, poor fellow! He swore he had sold his soul to perdition to possess her, and now she was dead he would not live; and, in spite of the watch kept upon him, he succeeded in throwing himself into the hungry river. Every effort was put forth to save him, but life was gone before he was reached.
"Ah, but he was a handsome fellow, was Raphalio! We were all proud and fond of him. But the beautiful American wife always seemed sad and listless, and her death was the signal for his. His mother had died a short time before the marriage, so now the home was broken up. Signor Russino came with the child and its nurse to me, where they have been ever since.
"The poor fatherless and motherless infant was the old man's idol, and has had, as Milord can see, every advantage that wealth and education could bestow; and she is as good as she is beautiful."
He rose and bowed. I signified that I was satisfied; and, with another and lower bow, he left the room, silently closing the door behind him.
I sat musing for a long time. I was at my wits' end. What should be my next move? I could not challenge the dead: that was apparent to even my dazed faculties. The old man had not been an accessory to the devilish plot; that, too, I could plainly see. Then what should I do?
Once more I drew out the papers, and read them from beginning to end. How my heart ached for the poor beautiful young mother, for the little deserted child! I blamed and pitied in the same breath. Oh, if she had only confided in her fond and loving father, how different might have been her life, how distant her death! Her father! Ah, now I knew what to do. I hastily arose, and enclosed all the papers in a thick envelope, and began to address it, when another thought struck me.
What if they were lost!
I sat down, and wrote as full an account of every thing as I could, and by the morning mail it was started for America. Then I gave myself up to my happiness; and, ah, what happy days those were! Sometimes I feared it might all be another dream, a fantasy, and I should awake and find it so. Then I would pray that I might die in my sleep, if it were, as I gazed in my darling's eyes.
Just as soon as it was possible for him to get there, Mr. Travers held me by the hand, and was looking with feverish anxiety into my face. Was he wondering if I were still mad?
For answer I laid the papers in his trembling hands. Slowly he read them through, great beads of sweat gathering upon his brow the while. His hands shook, his lips quivered, and tears stood in his eyes as he finished. "Where is she? where is my Elinor's child? Do not keep me waiting, I implore."
I rang the bell; then, writing a few lines upon a card, I sent it to my betrothed.
We strove to talk, to ask and an-
