xiety were mingled in them. His eyes seemed to be in search of some
object. They passed quickly from one person to another, till they rested
on his wife. She was seated in a careless attitude on the sofa, in the
same spot as before. She had the same muslin in her hand, by which her
attention was chiefly engrossed.

The moment he saw her, his perplexity visibly increased. He quietly
seated himself, and fixing his eyes on the floor, appeared to be
absorbed in meditation. These singularities suspended the inquiry which
I was preparing to make respecting the letter. In a short time, the
company relinquished the subject which engaged them, and directed their
attention to Wieland. They thought that he only waited for a pause in
the discourse, to produce the letter. The pause was uninterrupted by
him. At length Pleyel said, "Well, I suppose you have found the letter."

"No," said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and looking
stedfastly at his wife, "I did not mount the hill."--"Why
not?"--"Catharine, have you not moved from that spot since I left the
room?"--She was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying
down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, "No; Why do you ask that
question?"--His eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not
immediately answer. At length, he said, looking round upon us, "Is it
true that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That she did not just
now enter the room?"--We assured him, with one voice, that she had not
been absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions.

"Your assurances," said he, "are solemn and unanimous; and yet I must
deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my
senses, which informed me, when I was half way up the hill, that
Catharine was at the bottom."

We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him with great
levity on his behaviour. He listened to his friend with calmness, but
without any relaxation of features.

"One thing," said he with emphasis, "is true; either I heard my
wife's voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your voice at
present."

"Truly," returned Pleyel, "it is a sad dilemma to which you have reduced
yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that your
wife has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence.
You have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. In general, her voice,
like her temper, is all softness. To be heard ac