me in my decision. You must love George as you love
what is generous and upright and noble; and as for Laura--she must be
our Sister, Blanche, our Saint, our good Angel. With two such friends
at home, what need we care for the world without; or who is member
for Clavering, or who is asked or not asked to the great balls of the
season?"

To this frank communication came back the letter from Blanche to Laura,
and one to Pen himself, which perhaps his own letter justified. "You are
spoiled by the world," Blanche wrote; "you do not love your poor Blanche
as she would be loved, or you would not offer thus lightly to take her
or to leave her, no, Arthur, you love me not--a man of the world, you
have given me your plighted troth, and are ready to redeem it; but that
entire affection, that love whole and abiding, where--where is that
vision of my youth? I am but a pastime of your life, and I would be its
all;--but a fleeting thought, and I would be your whole soul. I would
have our two hearts one; but ah, my Arthur, how lonely yours is! how
little you give me of it! You speak of our parting with a smile on
your lip; of our meeting, and you care not to hasten it! Is life but a
disillusion, then, and are the flowers of our garden faded away? I have
wept--I have prayed--I have passed sleepless hours--I have shed bitter,
bitter tears over your letter! To you I bring the gushing poesy of my
being--the yearnings of the soul that longs to be loved--that pines
for love, love, love, beyond all!--that flings itself at your feet,
and cries, Love me, Arthur! Your heart beats no quicker at the
kneeling appeal of my love!--your proud eye is dimmed by no tear of
sympathy!--you accept my soul's treasure as though 'twere dross! not the
pearls from the unfathomable deeps of affection! not the diamonds from
the caverns of the heart. You treat me like a slave, and bid me bow to
my master! Is this the guerdon of a free maiden--is this the price of
a life's passion? Ah me! when was it otherwise? when did love meet with
aught but disappointment? Could I hope (fond fool!) to be the exception
to the lot of my race; and lay my fevered brow on a heart that
comprehended my own? Foolish girl that I was! One by one, all the
flowers of my young life have faded away; and this, the last, the
sweetest, the dearest, the fondly, the madly loved, the wildly
cherished--where is it? But no more of this. Heed not my bleeding
heart.--Bless you, bless you always, Arthu