e his appearance, and they
lingered long at table, till at last, a suggestion that he might be ill
started Fanny to her feet, and she ran to his door before a servant
could be summoned.

The rooms were open, and the bed had not been occupied. The candle was
burned to the socket, and on the easel, resting against the picture,
was a letter addressed--"Miss Fanny Bellairs."

THE LETTER.

"I have followed up to this hour, my fair cousin, in the path you
have marked out for me. It has brought me back, in this chamber, to
the point from which I started under your guidance, and if it had
brought me back unchanged--if it restored me my energy, my hope,
and my prospect of fame, I should pray Heaven that it would also
give me back my love, and be content--more than content, if it gave
me back also my poverty. The sight of my easel, and of the
surroundings of my boyish dreams of glory, have made my heart
bitter. They have given form and voice to a vague unhappiness,
which has haunted me through all these absent years--years of
degrading pursuits and wasted powers--and it now impels me from
you, kind and lovely as you are, with an aversion I cannot control.
I cannot forgive you. You have thwarted my destiny. You have
extinguished with sordid cares a lamp within me, that might, by
this time, have shone through the world. And what am I, since your
wishes are accomplished? Enriched in pocket, and bankrupt in
happiness and self-respect.

"With a heart sick, and a brain aching for distinction, I have come
to an unhonored stand-still at thirty! I am a successful tradesman,
and in this character I shall probably die. Could I begin to be a
painter now, say you? Alas! my knowledge of the art is too great
for patience with the slow hand! I could not draw a line without
despair. The pliant fingers and the plastic mind must keep pace to
make progress in art. My taste is fixed, and my imagination
uncreative, because chained down by certainties; and the
shortsighted ardor and daring experiments which are indispensable
to sustain and advance the follower in Raphael's footsteps, are too
far behind for my resuming. The tide ebbed from me at the accursed
burning of my pencils by your pitiless hand, and from that hour I
have felt hope receding. Could I be happy with you, stranded here
in ignoble idleness, and owing to y