e, and stood
gazing on her in wondering silence. At length she said, "I cannot take a
message like that to him; he would think it the wild raving of a
lunatic."

"Tell him, then, to go away, and never approach these doors again," said
Louise, suddenly bursting into tears. Mrs. Stanhope lingered in surprise
at her friend's emotion, and strove to soothe it.

"Go," said Louise; "I command you to go, and send him away. I shall die
if I hear another of his footfalls on the piazza."

Alarmed by the dreadful energy of her manner, Mrs. Stanhope hurried
away. The colonel came eagerly to her side, as she stepped forth.

"Does she refuse me?" he asked.

"She does," said Mrs. Stanhope.

"And does she give no encouragement that I may gain admittance at some
future time?"

"None."

"Then carry this to her," said he, placing a small, folded letter in
Mrs. Stanhope's hand, and turning dejectedly away.

Again she entered the mansion. Louise sat with head bowed between her
hands, and did not raise her eyes. Mrs. Stanhope laid the missive on the
table beside her, and silently left the apartment.

Twilight deepened into evening, and still the suffering woman sat there,
in mute, unutterable agony. A servant entering with lights at length
aroused her to consciousness, and her eye fell on the folded letter
lying on the stand. Hastily tearing away the envelope, she dropped on
her knees, and ran over its contents with devouring eagerness, while her
features worked with strong, conflicting emotions, and tears rolled
continually from her beautiful eyes and blistered the written page. "Why
do you drive me from you?" it began. "If, in an unguarded moment, under
the intoxicating influences which your bewitching presence, the quiet
seclusion of the spot, and romantic hush and stillness of the hour threw
around me, all combining to lap my soul in delicious forgetfulness of
everything beyond the momentary bliss of having you at my side, I
suffered words to escape my lips, which should have remained concealed
in my own bosom, you might at least let the deep, overpowering love
which forced their utterance, plead as some extenuation for my
presumption and error. But it seems you have cast me from you
forever--unpitied--unforgiven. O, Louise! I did not think you so
implacable. The sin is mine, and I would come on bended knee to implore
pardon for the suffering and sorrow my rashness has brought to your
innocent heart; but you fly from my appro