fore. So she
contented herself with saying:

"I found no opportunity of delivering your note, Thurston, and so I
thought it best to destroy it."

"I thank you. Under the circumstances that was best," replied the young
man, much relieved. When he reached home, he sat down and wrote a long
and eloquent epistle, imploring Marian's forgiveness for his rashness
and folly, assuring her of his continued love and admiration; speaking
of the impossibility of living longer without her society--informing her
of his intention to go to Paris, and proposing that she should either
precede or follow him thither, and join him in that city. It was her
duty, he urged, to follow her husband.

The following Sunday, after church, Marian placed her answer in his
hands. The letter was characteristic of her--clear, firm, frank and
truthful. It concluded thus:

"Were I to do as you desire me--leave home clandestinely, precede or
follow you to Paris and join you there, suspicion and calumny would
pursue me--obloquy would rest upon my memory. All these things I could
bear, were it necessary in a good cause; but here it is not necessary,
and would be wrong. But I speak not of myself--I ought not, indeed, to
do so--nor of Edith, whose head would be bowed in humiliation and
sorrow--nor of little Miriam, whose passionate heart would be half
broken by such a desertion. But I speak for the cause of morality and
religion here in this neighborhood, where we find ourselves placed by
heaven, and where we must exercise much influence for good or evil. Wait
patiently for those happy years, that the flying days are speeding on
toward us--those happy years, when you shall look back to this trying
time, and thank God for trials and temptations passed safely through. Do
not urge me again upon this subject. Be excellent, Thurston, be noble,
be god-like, as you can be, if you will; it is in you. Be true to your
highest ideal, and you will be all these. Oh! if you knew how your
Marian's heart craves to bow itself before true god-like excellence!"

CHAPTER XIX.

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

"No! The mail isn't come yet! leastways it isn't opened yet! Fan that
fire, you little black imp, you! and make that kittle bile; if you
don't, I shall never git this wafer soft! and then I'll turn you up, and
give you sich a switching as ye never had in your born days! for I won't
be trampled on by you any longer! you little black willyan, you! 'Scat!
you hussy! get