afterwards, as I saw you behave? I tell you
again, I shrank from the horror of hearing you
lie, after the horror of seeing you thieve. You
talk as if this was a misunderstanding which a
few words might have set right! Well! the
misunderstanding is at an end. Is the thing set
right? No! the thing is just where it was. I
don't believe you now! I don't believe you found
the nightgown, I don't believe in Rosanna
Spearman's letter, I don't believe a word you
have said. You stole it—I saw you! You
affected to help the police—I saw you! You
pledged the Diamond to the money-lender in
London—I am sure of it! You cast the suspicion
of your disgrace (thanks to my base silence!)
on an innocent man! You fled to the Continent
with your plunder the next morning! After all
that vileness, there was but one thing more you
could do. You could come here, with a last
falsehood on your lips—you could come here,
and tell me that I have wronged you!"

If I had stayed a moment more, I know not
what words might have escaped me which I
should have remembered with vain repentance
and regret. I passed by her, and opened the
door for the second time. For the second time
—with the frantic perversity of a roused woman
—she caught me by the arm, and barred my
way out.

"Let me go, Rachel," I said. "It will be
better for both of us. Let me go."

The hysterical passion swelled in her bosom
—her quickened convulsive breathing almost
beat on my face, as she held me back at the
door.

"Why did you come here?" she persisted,
desperately. "I ask you again—why did you
come here? Are you afraid I shall expose you?
Now you are a rich man, now you have got a
place in the world, now you may marry the best
lady in the land—are you afraid I shall say the
words which I have never said yet to anybody
but you? I can't say the words! I can't
expose you! I am worse, if worse can be, than
you are yourself." Sobs and tears burst from
her. She struggled with them fiercely; she
held me more and more firmly. "I can't tear
you out of my heart," she said, "even now!
You may trust in the shameful, shameful
weakness which can only struggle against you in
this way!" She suddenly let go of me—she
threw up her hands, and wrung them frantically
in the air. "Any other woman living would
shrink from the disgrace of touching him!" she
exclaimed. "Oh, God! I despise myself even
more heartily than I despise him!"

The tears were forcing their way into my
eyes, in spite of me—the horror of it was to be
endured no longer.

"You shall know that you have wronged
me, yet," I said. "Or you shall never see me
again!"

With those words, I left her. She started
up from the chair on which she had dropped the
moment before: she started up—the noble
creature!—and followed me across the outer
room, with a last merciful word at parting.

"Franklin!" she said, "I forgive you! Oh,
Franklin! Franklin! we shall never meet again.
Say you forgive me!"

I turned, so as to let my face show her that
I was past speaking—I turned, and waved my
hand, and saw her dimly, as in a vision, through
the tears that had conquered me at last.

The next moment, the worst bitterness of it
was over. I was out in the garden again. I
saw her, and heard her, no more.

BIRDS-EYE PARIS.

I. THE GREAT HOTEL.

THE rather serious business of " visiting"
one's baggage duly performed in the great gloomy
Hall of Customs, at the mosque-like station "of
the North," the heavy streets of a commercial
tone that radiate from it, judiciously depress
the soul and prepare it for a brilliant rebound.
Of a sudden comes a sweep round a corner,
with a crack of the whip, like the tap of harlequin's
sword on the canvas, then the slate-
coloured gate of St. Denis, alive with the pigtail
glories of the great Louis, passes away like a
scene, and the real glories and decorations of
the gayest and most theatrical of cities set in.
That is always the most welcome of moments,
when we debouch on the boulevards. We see
the airy trees, the broad streets, the noble and
dignified houses, rising, with tier after tier of
balcony, which seem all chocolate and gold; we
see the Moorish kiosques, the little temples
where the newspapers are sold, the glitter of the
cafés with glimpses of crystal halls beyond; and
the bright stream of men and women passing
and repassing, never ceasing, never halting,
always glittering like a broad ribbon shot with
every known colour. This is an old theme,
but that first sight of Paris is ever new.

There is a certain luxury and sense of
state in sweeping along the gay promenades,
through an archway into a vast courtyard,
already crowded with carriages and omnibuses,
strewn with luggage, filled with uniformed
porters and officials, surrounded with glistening
bureaux all lighted up, and whose light
comes flashing through the leaves of orange-
trees. From higher windows, faces look down,
on a lower terrace, gentlemen lounge smoking,
and lean on the balustrade. All is warm and
sheltered, for overhead is a vast glass roof. This
gay and busy scene is the court of The Great
Hotel at its hour of reception, when all
nations arrive, and want rooms.

At the "Bureau of Reception"—and everything
appertaining to the great hotel seems to
be done in a separate office—an English official
has a hard time of it, allotting rooms, talking in
half a dozen tongues, always able to know his
countrymen at the first word—a recognition,
perhaps, a little mortifying to them. He
checks his five hundred rooms or so by a little
printed list of the numbers, all on a small card,
which shows him the state of his house at a
glance.