CHAPTER III. THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.

“O death, death, death, thou ever floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls that love to live: I pray thee pass before my light of life And shadow all my soul that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.” ŒNONE.

THIS was the letter the little boy gave to the young lady in the arbour, and which without moving from her seat she opened and read. It was addressed outside correctly enough to “Mrs. Baldwin.” It was the first letter she had ever received from Ralph! She read it slowly, though it was short enough, dwelling on each phrase, each word, with the sort of hungry eagerness with which we strain our ears to catch each last precious whisper from loved lips which we know shall soon, very soon, be silent for ever.

“Marion,” it began, “my dearest, for I may call you that in the only