iciently distinct to arouse her--for she started up and gazed
wildly about her--but left no clear impression of their meaning on her
mind.

This, however, the man did not appear to notice; at all events, he did not
wait to observe the effect of his communication, but quitted the room
hastily, and in considerable trepidation, leaving the note on the table.

Julia was sleeping very heavily, at the moment when she was so startled
from her slumber; and, as is not unfrequently the case, a sort of
bewilderment and nervous agitation fell upon her, as she recovered her
senses. Perhaps she had been dreaming, and the imaginary events of her
dream had blended themselves with the real occurrence which awakened her.
But for a minute or two, though she saw the note, and the person who laid
it on the table, she could neither bring it to her mind who that person
was, nor divest herself of the impression that there was something both
dangerous and supernatural in what had passed.

In a little while this feeling passed away, and, though still nervous and
trembling, the young girl smiled at her own alarm, as she took up the
billet, which was directed to herself in a delicate feminine hand, with
the usual form of superscription--

"To Julia Serena, health"--

although the writer's name was omitted.

She gazed at it for a moment, wondering from whom it could come; since she
had no habitual correspondent, and the hand-writing, though beautiful, was
strange to her. She opened it, and read, her wonder and agitation
increasing with every line--

"You love Paullus Arvina," thus it ran, "and are loved by him. He is
worthy all your affection. Are you worthy of him, I know not. I love him
also, but alas! less happy, am not loved again, nor hope to be, nor indeed
deserve it! They tell me you are beautiful; I have seen you, and yet I
know not--they told me once that I too was beautiful, and yet I know not! I
know this only, that I am desperate, and base, and miserable! Yet fear me
not, nor mistake me. I love Paullus, yet would not have him mine, now; no!
not to be happy--as to be his would render me. Yet had it not been for you,
I might have been virtuous, honourable, happy, _his_--for winning him from
me, you won from me hope; and with hope virtue; and with virtue honour!
Ought I not then to hate you, Julia? Perchance I ought--to do so were at
least Roman--and hating to avenge! Perchance, if I _hoped_, I should. But
hoping nothing, I hate not