ce fell around about them.

"These are the gifts of a man," he whispered; "you do not know it better
than I. I shall walk out for one hour; at the end of that time there
must not be even a ribbon of yours in this chamber."

PART IV.

REMORSE.

He gave the same order to the proprietor as he passed down-stairs, and
hurried at a crazy pace across the Pont des Arts to the rooms of
Terrapin. That philosopher was playing whist with his friends, and gave
as his opinion that Ralph was "spooney."

Ralph drank much, talked much, chafed more. Somebody advised him to
travel, but he felt that Europe had nothing to show him like that which
he had lost. He told Madame George the story at the _cremery_.

"Ah, monsieur," she said, "that is the way with all love in Paris."

He played "ramps" with the French, but the game impressed him as stupid,
and he tried to quarrel with Boetia, who was too polite to be vexed. He
drank pure cognac, to the astonishment of the Gauls, but it had no
visible effect upon him, and Pere George held up his hands as he went
away, saying: "Behold these Americans! they do everything with a fever;
brandy affects them no more than water."

The room in the fifth story was very cold now. He tried to read in bed,
but the novel had no meaning in it. He walked up and down the balcony in
the November night, where he had often explained the motions of the
stars to her. They seemed to miss her now, and peeped inquisitively. He
looked into the bureau and wardrobe, half ashamed of the hope that she
had left some _souvenir_. There was not even a letter. She had torn a
leaf, on which she had written her name, out of his diary. The sketches
he had made of her were gone; if she had only taken her remembrance out
of his heart, it would have been well. Then he reasoned, with himself,
sensibly and consistently. It was a bad passion at first. How would it
have shamed his father and mother had they heard of it! Its continuance
was even more pernicious, making him profligate and idle; introducing
him to light pleasures and companies; enfeebling him, morally and
physically; diverting him from the beautiful arts; weakening his
parental love; divorcing him from grand themes and thoughts. He could
never marry this woman. Their heart-strings must have been wrung by some
final parting; and now that she had been proved untrue, was it not most
unmanly that he should permit her to stand even in the threshold of his
mind? It wa