Mrs. Macallan.

"I don't know how I may feel about it tomorrow morning," I said; "but
my impulse at this moment is decidedly to see him again. I had a little
talk with him while you were away at the other end of the room, and I
believe he really can be of use to me--"

"Of use to you in what?" interposed my mother-in-law.

"In the one object which I have in view--the object, dear Mrs. Macallan,
which I regret to say you do not approve."

"And you are going to take him into your confidence? to open your whole
mind to such a man as the man we have just left?"

"Yes, if I think of it to-morrow as I think of it to-night. I dare
say it is a risk; but I must run risks. I know I am not prudent; but
prudence won't help a woman in my position, with my end to gain."

Mrs. Macallan made no further remonstrance in words. She opened a
capacious pocket in front of the carriage, and took from it a box of
matches and a railway reading-lamp.

"You provoke me," said the old lady, "into showing you what your husband
thinks of this new whim of yours. I have got his letter with me--his
last letter from Spain. You shall judge for yourself, you poor deluded
young creature, whether my son is worthy of the sacrifice--the useless
and hopeless sacrifice--which you are bent on making of yourself for his
sake. Strike a light!"

I willingly obeyed her. Ever since she had informed me of Eustace's
departure to Spain I had been eager for more news of him, for something
to sustain my spirits, after so much that had disappointed and depressed
me. Thus far I did not even know whether my husband thought of me
sometimes in his self-imposed exile. As to this regretting already the
rash act which had separated us, it was still too soon to begin hoping
for that.

The lamp having been lighted, and fixed in its place between the two
front windows of the carriage, Mrs. Macallan produced her son's letter.
There is no folly like the folly of love. It cost me a hard struggle
to restrain myself from kissing the paper on which the dear hand had
rested.

"There!" said my mother-in-law. "Begin on the second page, the page
devoted to you. Read straight down to the last line at the bottom, and,
in God's name, come back to your senses, child, before it is too late!"

I followed my instructions, and read these words:

"Can I trust myself to write of Valeria? I _must_ write of her. Tell me
how she is, how she looks, what she is doing. I am always thinking of