o the table where my letter was laid, took it up, looked at
the seal, then at the handwriting; after turning it on all
sides for a minute or two, while I stood by straining every
nerve to appear indifferent, he held it out to me and said,
"Who on earth can this be from, Ellen?"

I took it and glanced at the direction--"From Mrs. Hatton," I
said; and slipping it carelessly into the inside of my gown, I
sat on and worked in silence, listening to the singing till I
could find an opportunity of leaving the room unobserved. I
flew rather than walked to mine, locked the door, and tearing
open the letter read the enclosure it contained with that
breathless eagerness which makes us feel as if our eyes were
too slow in conveying the sense to our minds.

HENRY'S LETTER.

"I will not attempt to describe to you the state of mind into
which your letter threw me. It was no doubt carefully worded,
and I give you credit for the pains which you evidently took
not to wound my feelings. You have at last learnt to know the
nature you have to deal with, and you have not, perhaps,
bought that knowledge too dearly, by all you have suffered at
my hands. Your power over me is a strange one: when I submit
to it, I despise myself; when I resist it, I hate myself. I
can never now be happy by you, or without you; and in the
wreck of all that once was happiness, I cling to some
unsubstantial shadows, which, when I grasp them, only mock my
utter desolation. Such are those held out by the last lines of
your letter. You never wrote truer or more artful words; true
as the arrow which strikes to the heart--artful as the skill
of the archer who aims it. You are right--I alone know you; I
alone can read every turn of your countenance, every emotion
of your soul. I know 'your eye's quick flash through its
troubled shroud.' I see the dark shade that passes over your
spirit, the clouds which sweep over your soul, rising in
anger, and melting into tenderness. I alone know the secret of
your wild beauty, of your fierce humility, of your transient
joys, and of your lasting sorrows. This knowledge, this power
is mine, Ellen, and shall be mine to the last day of our
lives; and as long as your eyes shall meet mine, as long as
your hand shall press mine, in the spirit which dictated those
lines of your letter, I shall not be utterly miserable, or
altogether without consolation. I shall have one share in your
soul which not even Edward can rob me of. And n