y his poetry; and had felt a deep interest in him personally, as
one that had the germs of all that is glorious and noble.

When she was introduced to him, and perceived his admiration of herself,
and at last received his offer, although deeply moved, she doubted her
own power to be to him all that a wife should be. She declined his
offer, therefore, but desired to retain his friendship. After this, as
she said, a correspondence ensued, mostly on moral and literary subjects;
and, by this correspondence, her interest in him was constantly
increased.

At last, she said, he sent her a very beautiful letter, offering himself
again. 'I thought,' she added, 'that it was sincere, and that I might
now show him all I felt. I wrote just what was in my heart.

'Afterwards,' she said, 'I found in one of his journals this notice of my
letter: "A letter from Bell,--never rains but it pours."'

There was through her habitual calm a shade of womanly indignation as she
spoke these words; but it was gone in a moment. I said, 'And did he not
love you, then?' She answered, 'No, my dear: he did not love me.'

'Why, then, did he wish to marry you?' She laid her hand on mine, and
said in a low voice, 'You will see.'

She then told me, that, shortly after the declared engagement, he came to
her father's house to visit her as an accepted suitor. The visit was to
her full of disappointment. His appearance was so strange, moody, and
unaccountable, and his treatment of her so peculiar, that she came to the
conclusion that he did not love her, and sought an opportunity to
converse with him alone.

She told him that she saw from his manner that their engagement did not
give him pleasure; that she should never blame him if he wished to
dissolve it; that his nature was exceptional; and if, on a nearer view of
the situation, he shrank from it, she would release him, and remain no
less than ever his friend.

Upon this, she said, he fainted entirely away.

She stopped a moment, and then, as if speaking with great effort, added,
'Then I was sure he must love me.'

'And did he not?' said I. 'What other cause could have led to this
emotion?'

She looked at me very sadly, and said, 'Fear of detection.'

'What!' said I, 'did that cause then exist?'

'Yes,' she said, 'it did.' And she explained that she now attributed
Lord Byron's great agitation to fear, that, in some way, suspicion of the
crime had been aroused in her mind, and that