as it possible? What a crowd of
conjectures, recollections, suppositions, and fears, rushed
upon me at that moment!

"What does he say about it? What does he write? When did it
happen? May I see his letter?" were the questions which I
addressed with breathless rapidity to Mrs. Middleton, who
seemed entirely taken aback by the manner in which I received
this startling intelligence.

"Here is a strange letter," she said, "from Henry himself;
another from my father, who, as you may imagine, is indignant;
and one from Mrs. Tracy, which is at once impertinent and
hypocritical. I hardly know whether I am acting rightly in
showing you Henry's. It _is_ so extraordinary; but you must
explain to me several things which I have never hitherto
questioned you about; and, perhaps together, we may find out
the secret of this wretched marriage. I have not ventured to
show this strange letter to your uncle; he thinks that it is
only from my father that I have heard of Henry's marriage; and
I am afraid I am doing wrong in letting you see it; but I am
so bewildered--"

I interrupted her by drawing the letters almost forcibly out
of her hand. She suffered me to do so, and watched me while I
read them. I was conscious of this at first; but the interest
was so absorbing, that I soon forgot her presence, and
everything, but the letters themselves. I read Henry's first:
it was as follows:--

"My dear Sister,

"You have known me long enough not to be surprised at any
extravagance that I may be guilty of. You know also that I am
somewhat of a fatalist, and that I maintain that our destiny
in life is marked out for us in a manner which we can neither
withstand nor counteract. I have just done what is commonly
called a foolish thing--very likely it is foolish; all I can
say is, that I could not help doing it. It is done, and
therefore the fewer remonstrances or lamentations that are
made on the subject the better. I am married. Last Thursday I
married, at--Church, Mrs. Tracy's grand-daughter. Her name is
Alice; she is very pretty, and has been well brought up. She
has five thousand pounds of her own, left her by an uncle, who
died some time ago. I have, as you know, about as much. My
father, of course, refuses to see her; and, I conclude, Mr.
Middleton will do the same. Do you remember, Mary, the time
when, sitting at my bedside, you would kiss my forehead, and
tell me how you would love my wife? We used to talk of her,
and describe h