erica, and from that day to this I had heard
nothing more about him; but I must find out if she knows of
his return. Perhaps she employs him as a spy. I shall let you
know what I hear."

After a pause, I said, with a great effort--

"You must not write to me on any account; remember that,
Henry. Edward will read all my letters; he is already in the
habit of doing so."

"It was exceedingly foolish of you not to object to it. Pray,
how am I to communicate with you if anything should occur to
make it desirable? Is your maid to be trusted?"

I coloured with anger and with shame, and gave Henry a look of
indignant reproach.

"I really beg your pardon if this offends you; but it is not
for my own sake that I ask the question. You yourself employed
a third person when you required my assistance."

"I was not married then, Henry; and deceit, contemptible as it
always is, was not as guilty as it will henceforward be. For
God's sake, spare me the shame of a secret correspondence. You
need not be afraid of my being too happy, or of my forgetting
that you hold my fate in your hands."

"Do not impute to me as a crime, Ellen, that, unfortunately,
_your_ safety depends on _my_ conduct. I have exercised the
greatest control over myself lately, and I had hoped that you
would have done justice to my motives."

As he said this we had reached the door of our house, and
anxious not to part with him in anger, I whispered to him, as
we shook hands--

"I do you justice, Henry. Forgive, and spare me!"

He wrung my hand and walked away, without waiting for his
wife, who had gone into the house with Mrs. Middleton.

Mr. Lovell, who was at that moment calling on my uncle, took
her home in his carriage. When I heard my aunt arrange with
them at what hour they were to be at church the next day, and
ask them to come home to luncheon afterwards, I stood by in a
sort of stupified bewilderment. I then went into the back
drawing-room, and wrote a note to Mrs. Hatton, to ask her to
be present at my marriage the next day. As I was finishing it
my aunt came in, and tried on the wreath of orange flowers,
and the veil which she had chosen for me.

I walked up and down the room--I stood at the window--I wished
that Edward would come; I was getting frightened at my own
nervousness. I went to the pianoforte, and sang Mrs. Hemans's
"Two Voices," that cry of alternate mournful depression, and
highly-wrought enthusiasm, in which the words and the