Excerpt from The Wanderer, Vol. 2 Yes, - yes, I answered eagerly. The paper was instantly thrust into my hands, and I heard a sound of steps retreating rapidly. I lost not a moment in reading the few words it contained. Be here to morrow evening at the same hour. I have suffered much on your account, - destroy this. It was the hand of my brother Juan, that hand so well remem bered from our late eventful correspondence, - that hand whose traces I never beheld without feeling corresponding characters of hope and confidence re traced in my soul, as lines before invisible appear on exposure to the heat that seems to vivify them. I am surprised that between this and the following evening my agitation did not betray me to the com munity. But perhaps it is only agitation arising from frivolous causes, that vents itself in external indications, - I was absorbed in mine. It is certain, at least, that my mind was all that day vacillating like a clock that struck every minute the alternate sounds, There is hope, - there is no hope. The day, - the eternal day, was at last over.. Evening came on; how I watched the advancing shades! At vespers, with what delight did I trace the gradual mellowing of the gold and purple tinges that gleamed through the great eastern window, and cal culated that their western decline, though slower.

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