-though what, is not said.

At Stornley the following letter from Emilia hit its mark:--

Dear Mr. Wilfrid,

"It is time for me to see you. Come when you have read this letter.
I cannot tell you how I am, because my heart feels beating in another
body. Pray come; come now. Come on a swift horse. The thought of you
galloping to me goes through me like a flame that hums. You will come,
I know. It is time. If I write foolishly, do forgive me. I can only make
sure of the spelling, and I cannot please you on paper, only when I see
you."

The signature of 'Emilia Alessandra Belloni' was given with her wonted
proud flourish.

Wilfrid stared at the writing. "What! all this time she has been
thinking the same thing!" Her constancy did not swim before him in
alluring colours. He regarded it as a species of folly. Disgust had left
him. The pool of Memory would have had to be stirred to remind him of
the pipe-smoke in her hair. "You are sure to please me when you see me?"
he murmured. "You are very confident, young lady!" So much had her charm
faded. And then he thought kindly of her, and that a meeting would
not be good for her, and that she ought to go to Italy and follow
her profession. "If she grows famous," whispered coxcombry, "why then
oneself will take a little of the praises given to her." And that seemed
eminently satisfactory. Men think in this way when you have loved them,
ladies. All men? No; only the coxcombs; but it is to these that you give
your fresh affection. They are, as it were, the band of the regiment of
adorers, marching ahead, while we sober working soldiers follow to their
music. "If she grows famous, why then I can bear in mind that her
heart was once in my possession: and it may return to its old owner,
perchance." Wilfrid indulged in a pleasant little dream of her singing
at the Opera-house, and he, tied to a ferocious, detested wife, how
softly and luxuriously would he then be sighing for the old time! It
was partly good seed in his nature, and an apprehension of her force
of soul, that kept him from a thought of evil to her. Passion does not
inspire dark appetite. Dainty innocence does, I am told. Things are
tested by the emotions they provoke. Wilfrid knew that there was no
trifling with Emilia, so he put the letter by, commenting thus "she's
right, she doesn't spell badly." Behind, which, to those who have caught
the springs of his character, volumes may be seen.

He put the letter by. Two da