ispered to
his soul, that truth must alienate her love, must sever her from him for
ever. There was a sharp and bitter struggle in his heart for that
moment--but it passed; and the better spirit was again strong and clear
within him.

"No!" he said to himself, "No! I have done with fraud, and falsehood! I
will not win her by a lie! If by the truth I must lose her, be it so! I
will be true, and at least I can--die!"

Thereon, without another word, he read the letter to the end, neither
faltering, nor pausing; and then walked calmly to the table, and laid it
down, perfectly resolute and tranquil, for his mind was made up for the
worst.

"Have you read it?" she asked, and her voice trembled, as much as her hand
had done before.

"I have, Julia, to the end. It is very sad--and much of it is true."

"And who is the girl, who wrote it?"

"Her name is Lucia Orestilla."

"Orestilla! Ye Gods! ye Gods! the shameless wife of the arch villain
Catiline!"

"Not so--but the wretched, ruined daughter of that abandoned woman!"

"Call her not woman! By the Gods that protect purity! call her not woman!
Did she not prompt the wretch to poison his own son! Oh! call her anything
but woman! But what--what--in the name of all that is good or holy, can have
brought you to know that awful being's daughter?"

"First, Julia, you must promise me never, to mortal ears, to reveal what I
now disclose to you."

"Have you forgotten, Paullus, that I am yet but a young maiden, and that I
have a mother?"

"Hortensia!" exclaimed the youth, starting back, aghast; for he felt that
from her clear eye and powerful judgment nothing could be concealed, and
that her iron will would yield in nothing to a woman's tenderness, a
woman's mercy.

"Hortensia," replied the girl gently, "the best, the wisest, and the
tenderest of mothers."

"True? she is all that you say--more than all! But she is resolute, withal,
as iron; and stern, and cold, and unforgiving in her anger!"

"And do you need so much forgiveness, Paullus?"

"More, I fear, than my Julia's love will grant me."

"I think, my Paullus, you do not know the measure of a girl's honest love.
But may I tell Hortensia? If not, you have said enough. What is not
fitting for a girl to speak to her own mother, it is not fitting that she
should hear at all--least of all from a man, and that man--her lover!"

"It is not that, my Julia. But what I have to say contains many lives--mine
among others! c