they rested upon the anxious countenances of her mother and Mr. Donaldson bending over her couch.

"Where am I?" she cried, starting up wildly—"how came I here—what has happened? Ah, now I remember—or was it some dreadful dream?" She pressed her hand to her forehead—"no, no, it was no dream—tell me," she added, with a convulsive shudder, closing her eyes as if to shut out some horrible vision, "is he dead—is Perozzi dead?"

"Compose yourself, my dear Mildred," replied Mrs. Donaldson, "he lives—fortunately the ball but slightly grazed his temple—yet, my child, such is his despair—to such a state of frenzy has your cruelty brought him, that we dare not trust him alone even for a moment, lest he once more attempt to end his misery by self-destruction."

A heart-rending groan was the poor girl's only answer.

"Mildred, my daughter," said Mr. Donaldson, "I had decided to say no more to you upon a subject so painful, but duty to my friend compels me to make one more appeal to your compassion. Can I stand calmly by and witness the wreck which despair has wrought in that beloved friend—can I behold him resolutely rushing upon death to end his misery and not speak! O, Mildred," falling on his knees, "save him—for you can—Mildred, behold me thus imploring your pity for Perozzi!"

Mildred burst into tears, and placed her hand within that of Mr. Donaldson.

"You will relent, my sweet child, will you not?" said her mother, throwing her arms around her—"yes, you will, and make us all happy—see," she added, drawing a letter from her bosom, "here is a letter from my beloved father—let his words plead with ours—shall I read?" Mildred assented, and breaking the seal Mrs. Donaldson continued: