at Littlebath. The very
fact of George having written such a book nearly scared Miss Baker
out of her wits. She, according to her own lights, would have placed
freethinkers in the same category with murderers, regicides, and
horrid mysterious sinners who commit crimes too dreadful for women to
think of. She would not believe that Bertram was one of these; but
it was fearful to think that any one should so call him. Caroline,
perhaps, would not so much have minded this flaw in her future
husband's faith if it had not been proof of his unsteadiness, of his
unfitness for the world's battle. She remembered what he had said to
her two years since on the Mount of Olives; and then thought of what
he was saying now. Everything with him was impulse and enthusiasm.
All judgment was wanting. How should such as he get on in the world?
And had she indissolubly linked her lot to that of one who was so
incapable of success? No; indissolubly she had not so linked it; not
as yet.

One night she opened her mind to her aunt, and spoke very seriously
of her position. "I hardly know what I ought to do," she said. "I
know how much I owe him; I know how much he has a right to expect
from me. And I would pay him all I owe; I would do my duty by him
even at the sacrifice of myself if I could plainly see what my duty
is."

"But, Caroline, do you wish to give him up?"

"No, not if I could keep him; keep him as he was. My high hopes are
done with; my ambition is over; I no longer look for much. But I
would fain know that he still loves me before I marry him. I would
wish to be sure that he means to live with me. In his present mood,
how can I know aught of him? how be sure of anything?"

Her aunt, after remaining for some half-hour in consideration, at
last and with reluctance gave her advice.

"It all but breaks my heart to say so; but, Caroline, I think I would
abandon it: I think I would ask him to release me from my promise."

It may well be imagined that Miss Waddington was not herself when she
declared that her high hopes were done with, that her ambition was
over. She was not herself. Anxiety, sorrow, and doubt--doubt as to
the man whom she had pledged herself to love, whom she did love--had
made her ill, and she was not herself. She had become thin and pale,
and was looking old and wan. She sat silent for awhile, leaning with
her head on her hand, and made no answer to her aunt's suggestion.

"I really would, Caroline; indeed, I w