CHAPTER XIX.
Ah, fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear, The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care! In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee! Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee!--SHELLEY.
LETTER FROM ALGERNON MORDAUNT TO ISABEL ST.

LEGER.
You told me not to write to you.

You know how long, but not how uselessly I have obeyed you.

Did you think, Isabel, that my love was of that worldly and common order which requires a perpetual aliment to support it?
Did you think that, if you forbade the stream to flow visibly, its sources would be exhausted, and its channel dried up?
This may be the passion of others; it is not mine.

Months have passed since we parted, and since then you have not seen me; this letter is the first token you have received from a remembrance which cannot die.