His companions began to whisper strange things of him in the studio,--that his eye was getting an unnatural light,--that he talked as if to imaginary listeners,--in short, that there was a look as if something were going wrong with his brain, which it might be feared would spoil his fine intelligence.

It was the undecided battle, and the enemy, as in his noblest moments he had considered the growing passion, was getting the better of him.
He was sitting one afternoon before the fatal bust which had smiled and whispered away his peace, when the post-man brought him a letter.

It was from the simple girl to whom he had given his promise.

We know how she used to prattle in her harmless way about her innocent feelings, and the trifling matters that were going on in her little village world.

But now she wrote in sadness.