test consolation I can have will be to carry it with me to a state
of eternal rest; which, vile as I am, I hope to obtain, through the
infinite mercy of Heaven, as revealed in the gospel of Christ. I must
see Major Sanford again. It is necessary to converse further with him in
order to carry my plan of operation into execution."

"What is this plan of operation, Eliza?" said I. "I am on the rack of
anxiety for your safety." "Be patient," continued she, "and you shall
soon be informed. To-morrow I shall write my dreadful story to my
mother. She will be acquainted with my future intentions; and you shall
know, at the same time, the destination of your lost friend." "I hope,"
said I, "that you have formed no resolution against your own life." "God
forbid," rejoined she. "My breath is in his hands; let him do what
seemeth good in his sight! Keep my secret one day longer, and I will never
more impose so painful a silence upon you."

By this time we had reached home. She drank tea with composure, and soon
retired to rest. Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired whether I had found out
the cause of Eliza's melancholy. "I have urged her," said I, "on the
subject; but she alleges that she has particular reasons for present
concealment. She has, notwithstanding, promised to let me know the day
after to-morrow." "O," said she, "I shall not rest till the period
arrives." "Dear, good woman," said I to myself, "I fear you will never
rest afterwards."

This is our present situation. Think what a scene rises to the view of
your Julia. She must share the distress of others, though her own
feelings on this unhappy occasion are too keen to admit a moment's
serenity. My greatest relief is in writing to you; which I shall do
again by the next post. In the mean time, I must beg leave to subscribe
myself sincerely yours,

JULIA GRANBY.

LETTER LXVII.

TO THE SAME.

HARTFORD.

All is now lost; lost indeed! She is gone! Yes, my dear friend, our
beloved Eliza is gone! Never more shall we behold this once amiable
companion, this once innocent and happy girl. She has forsaken, and, as
she says, bid an everlasting adieu to her home, her afflicted parent,
and her friends. But I will take up my melancholy story where I left it
in my last.

She went, as she told me she expected, into the garden, and met her
detestable paramour. In about an hour she returned, and went directly to
her chamber. At one o'clock I went up, and found her writing, and
we