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 had never agreed in opinion regarding marriage, and Mela thought bread and salt, seasoned by love, enough for mortal happiness; yet she was not deaf to the report of her lover’s prosperity, she had even indulged in some pleasing domestic arrangements, was delighted at the idea of realizing her mother’s luxurious dreams, and of restoring her to her former opulence, without doing violence to her own inclinations.

The pleasing illusion vanished with the gradual lapse of time, while Frank still refused to make his appearance. Next came a report that he was preparing an establishment for the reception of his bride, a rich lady of Antwerp, who was on the point of arriving. This was, indeed, a death-blow to her hopes, and was too much even for her feelings of resignation. She vowed to tear the image of the faithless wretch for ever from her heart, and to dry her tears,—while at the same time they flowed afresh.

In an hour,—and there were many such, when she quite forgot her vow, and was recurring with sweet and bitter fancies to the one loved idea, however she esteemed it unworthy her,—she was roused by a low tap at the door. Her mother opened it;—it was Frank; their old neighbour Frank, from the narrow street. He wore a rich dress, and his fine brown curls clustered round his forehead, and seem-