nseuses_ and
opera-singers; and I thought it possible you might have dramatised a
little love-story to favour the illusion. Well, well," said she,
sighing, "so that you have not fallen in love with poor Lucy Howard----"

"And why not with her?" said I, starting, while in my quick-beating
heart and burning temples a sense of torturing pain went through me.

"Why not with her?" reiterated she, pausing at each word, and fixing
her eyes steadfastly on me, with a look where no affected astonishment
existed; "why not with her?--did you say this?"

"I did; and do ask, What is there to make it strange that one like her
should inspire the deepest sentiment of devotion, even from one whose
days are so surely numbered as mine are--so unworthy to hope--to win
her?"

"Then you really are unaware! Well, I must say this was not treating
you fairly. I thought every one knew it, however; and I conclude they
themselves reasoned in the same way. Come, I suppose I must explain;
though, from your terrified face and staring eyeballs, I wish the task
had devolved on some other. Be calm and collected, or I shall never
venture upon it.--Well, poor dear Lucy inherits her mother's malady--she
is insane!"

Broken half-words, stray fragments of speech, met my ears, for she went
on to talk of the terrible theme with the volubility of one who revelled
in a story of such thrilling horror. I, however, neither heard nor
remembered more; passages of well-remembered interest flashed upon my
mind, but, like scenes lit up by some lurid light, glowed with meanings
too direful to dwell on.

How I parted from her--how I left the Villa and came hither, travelling
day and night, till exhausted strength could bear no more--are still
memories too faint to recall; the realities of these last few days have
less vividness than my own burning, wasting thoughts: nor can I, by any
effort, separate the terrible recital she gave from my own reflections
upon it.

I must never recur to this again--nor will I reopen the page whereon it
is written: I have written this to test my own powers of mind, lest I
too----

Shakspeare, who knew the heart as none, save the inspired, have ever
known it, makes it the test of sanity to recall the events of a story in
the same precise order, time after time, neither changing nor inverting
them. This is Lear's reply to the accusation of madness, when yet his
intelligence was unclouded,--"I will the matter re-word, which madness
wo