ething in them might alter the
dreadful certainty of my fate. The servant swept the hearth,
and put on fresh coals, and then asked, "Do you expect Mr.
Middleton home to dinner, Ma'am?"

I could not say no; I could not speak; I shook my head, and
made a sign to him to go; and when the door was closed upon
him, I flung myself with my face on the ground, and wept in
anguish of spirit.

Then, for the first time, I asked myself what I should do,
where I should go. To speak to any one I had ever known
before, to justify myself to any one but to Edward, to leave
his house for that of any friend or acquaintance, was
impossible. Condemned and discarded by him, I had no other
thought, but as a wounded animal to creep to some corner of
the world, and die there in silence.

I glanced at the letters before me; one was an invitation for
the Wednesday in the following week. My name and Edward's were
joined together, as they _never_ would be again. The details
of that every-day happiness of life, which was for ever
destroyed, rose before me; and my heart rebelled against its
fate, and murmured against God. I opened the next; it was from
Henry. The image of his dying and childless wife was before
me; and I shuddered as I read these lines:

"Your character is gone, your reputation is lost, you are for
ever parted from Edward. Nothing remains to you now but the
proffered devotion of my whole life. I have not returned to my
detested home since the last scene that drove me from it, and
never shall again. As long as you live I shall be at your
side; wherever you go I shall follow you. There is a wild joy
in my heart, for our destiny is accomplished; and henceforward
we must be all in all to each other. Ellen, idol of my soul,
you shall be mine. The excess of my love must win back love at
last. Write me one line; tell me where you go; what you do.
Life has not strength, language has not words, for this
tumultuous fever of agitation, for this hour of love and
terror, of anguish and of joy."

I tore open the next letter, and read as follows:

"My blessed child, I shall see you to-morrow, and I can feel
_almost_ happy in that prospect. You and Edward occupied your
uncle's last thoughts; and on you both he pronounced his last
blessing. The sight of your mutual happiness, your devotion to
each other, will seem to me a tribute to his memory, and a
consolation to my own sorrows. Edward has been as a son to me
in my affliction, and