soon. I know that his
love for me has grown weaker as the years went by, and that I have been
little better than a burden to him. I could never tell you how lonely my
life has been in those great foreign cities, where there seems such
perpetual gaiety and pleasure. I think I must have died of the solitude
and dulness--the long dreary summer evenings, the dismal winter days--if
it had not been for my darling child. She has been all the world to me.
And, O God!' she cried, with a look of anguish that went to my heart,
'what will become of her when I am dead, and she is left to the care of a
selfish dissipated man?'

"'You need never fear that she will be without one friend while I live,'
I said. 'Little Marian is very dear to me, and I shall make it my
business to watch over her career as well as I can.'

"The poor soul clasped my hand, and pressed her feverish lips to it in a
transport of gratitude. What a brute a man must have been who could
neglect such a woman!

"After this I went up to her room every evening, and read to her a
little, and cheered her as well as I could; but I believe her heart was
broken. The end came very suddenly at last. I had intended to question
her about her husband's family; but the subject was a difficult one to
approach, and I had put it off from day to day, hoping that she might
rally a little, and would be in a better condition to discuss business
matters.

"She never did rally. I was with her when she died, and her last act was
to draw her child towards her with her feeble arms and lay my hand upon
the little one's head, looking up at me with sorrowful pleading eyes. She
was quite speechless then, but I knew what the look meant, and answered
it.

"'To the end of my life, my dear,' I said, 'I shall love and cherish
her--to the end of my life.'

"After this the child fell asleep in my arms as I sat by the bedside
sharing the long melancholy watch with the landlady, who behaved very
well at this sorrowful time. We sat in the quiet room all night, the
little one wrapped in a shawl and nestled upon my breast. In the early
summer morning Lucy Nowell died, very peacefully; and I carried Marian
down to the sofa in the parlour, and laid her there still asleep. She
cried piteously for her mother when she awoke, and I had to tell her that
which it is so hard to tell a child.

"I wrote to Mr. Nowell at an address in Brussels which I found at the top
of his last letter to his wife. No answer