rsecution--and ever so
many other things not necessary to mention. Well, I wrote back, and she
answered my letter, and so we got into the way of a correspondence
which we kept up at a perfectly furious rate. It came hard on me, of
course, for I'm not much at a pen; my letters were short, as you may
suppose, but then they were full of point, and what matters quantity so
long as you have quality, you know? Her letters, however, poor little
darling, were long and eloquent, and full of a kind of mixture of love,
hope, and despair. At first I thought that I should grow reconciled to
my situation in the course of time, but, instead of that, it grew worse
every day. I tried to forget all about her, but without success. The
fact is, I chafed under the restraint that was on me, and perhaps it
was that which was the worst of all. I dare say now if I'd only been in
some other place--in Montreal, for instance--I wouldn't have had such a
tough time of it, and might gradually have forgotten about her; but the
mischief of it was, I was here--in Quebec--close by her, you may say,
and yet I was forbidden the house. I had been insulted and threatened.
This, of course, only made matters worse, and the end of it was, I
thought of nothing else. My very efforts to get rid of the bother only
made it a dozen times worse. I flung myself into ladies' society with
my usual ardor, only worse; committed myself right and left, and seemed
to be a model of a gay Lothario. Little did they suspect that under a
smiling face I concealed a heart of ashes--yes, old boy--ashes! as I'm
a living sinner. You see, all the time, I was maddened at that
miserable old scoundrel who wouldn't let me visit his daughter--me,
Jack Randolph, an officer, and a gentleman, and, what is more, a
Bobtail! Why, my very uniform should have been a guarantee for my
honorable conduct. Then, again, in addition to this, I hankered after
her, you know, most awfully. At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so
I wrote her a letter. It was only yesterday. And now, old chap, what do
you think I wrote?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said I, mistily; "a declaration of love,
perhaps--"

"A declaration of love? pooh!" said Jack; "as if I had ever written any
thing else than that. Why, all my letters were nothing else. No, my
boy--this letter was very different. In the first place, I told her
that I was desperate--then I assured her that I couldn't live this way
any longer, and I concluded with