as. Rondeau had been waiting for his masters summons until his patience
was exhausted. So, relying on the letter to counteract any apparent
disrespect, he stalked upstairs and knocked at Dr. Lacey's door, just as
that gentleman was about ringing for him.

As soon as he entered the room, he called out, "Here, master, I've got 'em
this time!" at the same time extending a letter, the superscription of
which made Dr. Lacey turn pale, for he recognized, as he supposed, Fanny's
delicate handwriting.

"You may leave me alone, Rondeau," said he, "and I will ring for you when
I want you." So Rondeau departed with the remaining letter in his pocket.
He had forgotten to deliver it, but it was not missed.

Oh, Rondeau, Rondeau! It was very unfortunate that you forgot that letter,
and suffered it to remain in your pocket unheeded for so many days. Its
contents would have scattered the dark, desolating tempest which was fast
gathering over your young master's pathway.

As soon as Dr. Lacey was alone, he sat down, anxious, yet fearing to know
the contents of his letter. At last he resolutely broke the seal, thinking
to himself, "It cannot contain anything worse than I already know." One
glance at the beginning and end of the letter confirmed his fears, and for
a few moments he was unable to read a line; then summoning all his
remaining courage, he calmly read the letter through, not omitting a
single word, but comprehending the meaning of each sentence. It was as
follows:

"Frankfort, March 25th, 18--.

"DR. LACEY:

"SIR--Have you, during some weeks past, ever wondered why I did not write
to you? And in enumerating to yourself the many reasons which could
prevent my writing, has it ever occurred to you that possibly I might be
false? Can you forgive me, Dr. Lacey, when I tell you that the love I once
fancied I bore for you has wholly subsided, and I now feel for you a
friendship, which I trust will be more lasting than my transient girlish
love?

"Do you ask how I came to change so suddenly? I can only answer by another
confession still more painful and humiliating to me. When I bade you
adieu, I thought I loved you as well as I ever could again. I say again,
for--but how shall I tell you? How confess that my first affection was not
given to you? Yes, ere I had ever seen you, I loved another, and one, too,
whom some would say it were sinful to love.

"But why harrow my feelin