I have just been discarded by Annie.

Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and
recall what she said to me. My head is troubled
to-day—it is strange what a want of self-control I
have! I thought I was strong—and I am weaker
than a child.

I told her that I loved her—had loved her for

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years—that she was dearer, far, to me than all on
earth beside my mother. And she answered me—
agitated, but perfectly resolved:

“I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave.”

A long pause followed, in which she evidently
labored with great distress—then she continued:

“I will frankly and faithfully say why I cannot.
I know all—I know your feelings for me once.
You went away because you were poor, and you
thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than
yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it,
except—pardon me, sir, I am confused—I meant to
say, that you are now the richer. It humbles me
to speak of this—why did you not”—

There she stopped, blushing and trembling.

“Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray
you.”

She replied to my words in a broken and agitated
voice:

“I cannot finish. I was thinking of—of—the
day when I mended your coat!”

And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes,
as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong
the account of our interview. She soon left me,
resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly
miserable.

What shall I do? I cannot live without her.

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My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her
there near me, at the window, in the street; to see
her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it
flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that
she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I
endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything
that can move her?

— Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate
accident. To-morrow, or very soon—very
soon!