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such crystal clear eyes. She walked with him to the gate; her ebon curls
a stream in the July breeze.

"Will you not write to me sometimes?" Mr. Gilbert could not help asking.
"You don't know how glad I shall be to hear of--of you all."

Mademoiselle Bourdon promised readily.

"Though I don't write very good letters," she remarked deprecatingly.
"I get the spelling wrong, and the grammar dreadfully mixed when I write
in English, but I want to improve. If you'll promise to tell me of all
my mistakes, I'll write with pleasure."

So what were to be the most precious love letters on earth to the
gentleman, were to be regarded as "English composition," by the lady.
Truly, the French proverb saith: "There is always one who loves, and one
who is loved."

Mr. Gilbert returned to New York, and found that populous city a blank
and howling wilderness. The exercises in English composition began, and
though both grammar and spelling might get themselves into hopeless
snarls, to him they were the most eloquent and precious epistles ever
woman penned. He had read the letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, but
what were those vapid epistles to Miss Bourdon's? He watched for the
coming of the Eastern mail; he tore open the little white envelope; he
read and re-read, and smiled over the contents.

And time went on. August, September, October passed. The letters from
Miss Norine Bourdon came like clock work, and were the bright spots in
Richard Gilbert's hard-working, drab-colored life. He wrote her back; he
sent her books and music, and pictures and albums, and pretty things
without end, and was happy. And then the Ides of dark November came, and
all this pastoral bliss was ended and over.

The letters with the Down-east post mark ceased abruptly, and without
any reason; his last two remained unanswered. He wrote a third, and fell
into a fever while he waited. Was she sick, was she dead, was she----.
No, not faithless, surely, he turned cold at the bare thought. But what
was it? The last week of November brought him his answer. Very short,
very unsatisfactory.

"KENT FARM, Nov. 28, 1860.

"DEAR MR. GILBERT--You must pardon me for not replying to your last
letters. I have been so busy. A gentleman met with an accident
nearly three weeks ago, close by our house, broke his left arm, and
sprained his right ankle. I have had to take care of him. Aunt
Hetty has so much to do all the time that she coul