It was toward the close of the second winter after I had
parted with him at the Heronry. I was no longer a ballet-dancer.
With the departure of him I loved, came a full conviction
that hereafter I had no private life to make rich, — that I
must give all to the world. I had commenced to sing, and I was
now prima donna of her Majesty's theatre.

It was almost the last night of the season. I had gone to the
green-room with a heavy weight upon my heart; but I shook
it off, and perhaps sang even better than usual. At last the
audience dispersed, and, going down by the private entrance, I
stepped into my carriage; but, seeing the outline of a man's form
upon the seat, I was about to spring back, and summon my servants
to my assistance, when a voice I had heard in the dreams
of many a night whispered, “Agnes!” I called “Home!” to
my coachman, and sat down. As the carriage turned, the gaslight
flashed full in my companion's face. I could scarcely restrain
a shriek of surprise. Frederick Hutton had changed so,
one would hardly recognize him.

“You are surprised, Agnes,” he said, gently, “at the work
trouble has done. Never mind, — I shall only be at rest the sooner.
I don't know what made me come to seek you, Agnes, this night,
of all others. I am to be married to-morrow. I came home, and
found that Clara had suffered terribly. She did not know that I

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had ever loved another; but my long-continued attentions to her
had won her heart, and, upon my desertion, the whole joy and
hope of her life seemed to pass away. I was too wretched myself
to wish to be the instrument of like misery to another. My heart
smote me when I looked upon her pale face, and I resolved to
make what reparation I could, by giving her my hand and what
of life remained.”

He paused, but I felt that my voice was full of tears; I said
nothing, and he continued, “Agnes, I know your strength of love;
but your frame is strong, too; perhaps you will suffer more than
I, but you will live longer. I want you to promise me something,
will you? I will send for you when I am dying, and I want you
to come. Will you come, Agnes, wherever you are? Will you
promise me to come?” And, putting my hand in his, I answered
“I will come!” and it was to both our souls as if an oath had
been spoken.

I saw Frederick Hutton once more. Three years had passed,
and I was rich. I had left the stage, and was residing on
my own estate, a lovely villa in the south of France. I was
scarcely more than twenty, and still beautiful, though trouble
had wrought many a thread of silver in my hair. I think
my taste must have been tropical; for you might have fancied
my boudoir the abode of a Sultana. A fountain of perfumed
waters danced and sparkled in its marble basin, in the centre.
A glass door opened into a small but choice conservatory, where
grew the Indian aloe, with its broad green leaves; and gay
tropical birds plumed their wings on the whispering boughs of

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the Eastern palm. Tiny, graceful little streams flowed among
thick, mossy grass; and beneath the Indian trees, half hidden in
the foliage, stood groups of marble statuary, that you might have
dreamed were Fauns and Hamadryads, the guardian spirits of
the scene. Around the walls of my favorite room I had hung a
few pictures, small, but choice; they were mostly woodland landscapes,
with here and there one of Claude Lorraine's Italian
sunsets, or a head by Perugino. On the floor were rich, heavy
mattings, from the far-famed looms of the Indies; and lounges
and cushions of Genoa velvet, in crimson and purple, were scattered,
with lavish prodigality, around. On one of these I lay
reading, and listlessly winding around my fingers my unbound
hair, when my favorite waiting-maid, entering the apartment,
handed me a letter. I recognized the hand-writing, and my
fingers trembled as I broke the seal. It was long, and closely-written;
but I will copy it all here. It ran thus:

“Agnes, my Soul's own Agnes: —

“Many months have passed since last we met. Summers and
winters have been braided into years, and still on my heart is
your name written; not one hieroglyph that you traced there
has been obliterated. Heart and soul I am, what I always have
been, yours! I married Clara the day succeeding our last meeting,
and I love her very much. Can you reconcile this with what I
have just written? I am yours, as I said; you, even you, my
Agnes, are more to me than all the rest of earth; but it is much
to feel we can make another human being entirely happy.

“I told you Clara was sorrow-struck and drooping. Well,
after our marriage, she brightened up in my presence, as a

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wood-flower, beaten down by the wind and rain, but yet not crushed,
revives in the calm glow of the sunshine. Soon she regained
her health, and I believe she grew dear to me as a sister.
My own health was failing even then, and for many weeks I was
prostrated by a low, nervous fever. During all that time, she
was so devoted in her attentions, so patient in her tireless vigils,
you would have thought her some angel sent from heaven to guard
me. And yet, Agnes, through it all, grateful as my heart was
to her, it never beat with a single throb that was not faithful to
you. I loved you, — you only, you always.

“For a time after my fever, I seemed to be recovering; but
the cold weather brought increasing debility, and I was ordered
to Italy. Of course, Clara was my companion. I don't know
why it was, but even these genial skies could do little for a malady
which was not of the flesh; and yet, more and more I grew
in love with Italy. I used to sit and dream for hours on the
banks of the silvery Arno, trying to people the fair land with its
old-time deities; but, somehow, every sylph used to wear your
face. I wonder if it was sin thus to worship you? I could not
help it, and I believe God has forgiven me. And this brings me
to something I must tell you; it took place last summer. I had
been very ill, and was just able to go out of doors. I sat alone
(for I had sent Clara away from me), feeling miserable and despondent.
I thought of you, and, O! Agnes, I cannot tell you
how my soul longed and pined for you. I knew it would be sin
to see you then, but I remembered your promise to come to me
at my dying hour; and wickedly I knelt down before God,
and my heart uttered a wail, a cry, an earnest prayer for
death! I longed for it, Agnes; for I felt that thus only

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could I gaze again on my heart's treasure; and yet, when I
had uttered the words, I was frightened at their terrible meaning,
and I grew still, and held my breath. I am not superstitious,
Agnes; I am a Protestant, and do not believe in miracles,
or visions; but I know I heard a voice then, and it was no human
voice; it said, `Come unto me, all ye that are weary and
heavy-laden, and I will give you rest!' There was a struggle
in my soul, and then once again I prayed, and this time the
words of my prayer were, `Thy will be done!' And then
unto my soul there came a holy peace and calm.

“Since then I have longed for you, Agnes, as I sat under the
orange-trees; but it has not been that I might fold you in the
arms of earthly love — O no! for I knew I was a dying man; —
but that I might take your hand in mine, and point you to
that other land, where never more will the white day wrap her
robe about her, and go mournfully down the sunset slopes, trembling
to her death. You must meet me there, Agnes, where
there is no need of the sun by day, or the moon by night. —

“Agnes, it is weeks since I wrote the above. I was at Genoa
then; you will see, by the post-mark, I am at Florence now. I
have a mission for you, my Agnes; come quickly, and you will
find me here. I was taken very ill at Genoa; but I travelled
here by easy stages, and now I am writing, propped up by pillows,
to summon you to my dying bed. Do not start, Agnes, or
sigh, or weep! I am a happy man. I am going home, where
there will be no more sickness nor sorrow, — home to a friend
whom I know, a Redeemer whom I trust. You must meet me
there, Agnes; I shall wait for you, and you must come. But you
will see me here first, you will come to me immediately; for you

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have vowed to stand by my dying bed. My soul will wait for
you, — I shall not die till you are here! Come, then, quickly,
for I am in haste to be gone!

“I said I had a mission for you. I give Clara to your care.
She was an orphan when I married her, and she has no one left
to care for her. She is a good, gentle little thing, but not a
strong woman, like you. You can guide her, you can care for
her; for I know you have left the stage. You will promise to
stay with her as long as she shall need your care. She knows
but little of our past; nothing, save that you are dear to me,
and I have sent for you. God in heaven bless you! Agnes,
not of my claiming, but of my loving, come quickly!

Two days more, and I stepped from my travelling-carriage at
the door of a beautiful Italian villa. In the faint glimpse I had
as I hurried up the steps, it seemed like an earthly Paradise. An
English housekeeper met me at the door.

“You have been expected, ma'am,” she remarked; “my
master is just alive!”

And there, in that pleasantly-furnished room in the Italian
villa, I saw Frederick Hutton once more, and for the last time.
He was handsomer than ever, but his face wore the beauty of an
angel. His large eyes were unearthly in their brightness, and
on his forehead sat a radiance as of heavenly glory.

His whole face kindled as he saw me, and a smile of welcome
played around his lips. He stretched forth his hand:

“You are in time, Agnes,” he said; “I knew you would be;

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I was waiting for you. Will you care for her?” and, with his
thin finger, he pointed to Clara, who was kneeling, in a stupor
of grief, at the bed's foot.

“Yes, Frederick,” I answered, with faltering voice and filling
eyes, “as long as she has need of me!”

“God bless you, darling!” he whispered, tenderly; and then he
closed his eyes, as if in prayer. “Agnes,” he said once more,
“you will find in that little desk what I have meant for you.
You must look for it when I am gone, and use it often. You
will come, Agnes, I know it. `He giveth his beloved sleep.'
Think of that, and be comforted when I am lying low. Sit down
now, Agnes, and take my hand in yours, and sing some old hymn.
Good-by, darling!”

I took his hand in mine, and sat beside him. I steadied my
nerves and my voice, choking back the tears; and I sang that
grand old hymn, “Saviour, when in dust to thee.” Before I
had finished, the hand I held in mine grew cold, the dark eyes
closed. Frederick Hutton was dead!

We buried him there in sunny Italy; you would know his
grave, if you should go to Florence. We placed a white stone
at his head, and on that stone was graven, “He giveth his
beloved sleep!”

The gift he had left for me was the pocket Bible which had
been his constant companion. At first I prized it for his
sake; then it became far dearer to me for its own, for it has
guided my footsteps in the path which will one day take me
home to heaven and him.

I watched over Clara, for his sake, until the throbbings of her
great grief grew still; and then, still young and beautiful, she

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went forth to gladden another heart, another home; and, standing
now with her husband and her children, I know not whether
her lips murmur at night-fall the name of the dead.

I am old now, but my life is calm and happy. I am looking
forward to that day, not very far off, when I shall stand by Frederick's
side in heaven, and, putting my hand in his, whisper,
“Here am I, my beloved; I have been thine only, through
all!”