ulia nor
my brother was there, I concluded they were out walking, and, taking a
book, I sat down, impatiently waiting their return. Some time having
elapsed, however, without their making their appearance, I rang the
bell; and our aged servant, on entering, started at seeing me there.

"La, sir!" said she, "I did'nt expect to see _you_!"

"Where are Miss Julia and my brother?"

"Why, la, sir! I was just agoing to ask _you_. Miss Julia had a letter
from you about a week ago, and she and Mr. Henry went off in a poshay
together next day. They said they would be back to-day."

I said not a word in reply, but buried my face in my folded arms on the
table, while the cold perspiration flowed over my brow, and my heart
sickened within me, as the fatal truth by degrees broke upon me.

"Fool, fond fool, that I was, to have been so long blind!" muttered I;
"but it cannot be!--Julia!--_my_ Julia!--no, no!" And I almost cursed
myself for the unworthy suspicion. But why dwell longer upon these
moments of agony? My first surmise was a correct one. In a week's time
all was known. My brother, my brother Harry, for whom I would have
sacrificed fortune, life itself, had betrayed my dearest trust, and had
become the husband of her I had fondly thought my own. The blow was too
sudden and overpowering; I sunk beneath it. My reason became unsettled,
and for several months I was unconscious of my own misery. I awoke to
sense, an altered man. My heart was crushed, my very blood seemed to be
turned into gall; I hated my kind, and resolved to seclude myself for
ever from a world of falsehood and ingratitude. The only tie which could
have reconciled me to life had been wrenched away from me during my
unconsciousness: my brother's misconduct had broken my father's heart,
and I was left alone in the world. I paid one sad visit to my father's
grave, shed over it bitter tears of sorrow and disappointment, and from
that hour to this I have never seen the home in which I passed so many
happy days. Some months afterwards, I received a letter from a friend
residing in Wales, of a very extraordinary nature, requiring me
instantly to visit him, and stating that he had something of importance
to communicate to me. I knew the writer, and confided in him; he had
known my misfortune, and wept with me over the loss of my Julia and of
my father. I hastened to him on the wings of expectation, and, when I
arrived, was taken by him into an inner apartment of his