tary illumination of
countenance accompanying these words, which soon faded into a mournful
quietness, as she cast her eyes around on the scanty accommodations and
mean apartment.

"I see how it is, Augusta; step by step, you are sinking--dragged down
by a vain sense of duty to one no longer worthy. I cannot bear it any
longer; I have come to take you away."

Augusta turned from him, and looked abstractedly out of the window. Her
features settled in thought. Their expression gradually deepened from
their usual tone of mild, resigned sorrow to one of keen anguish.

"Henry," said she, turning towards him, "never was mortal woman so
blessed in another as I once was in him. How can I forget it? Who knew
him in those days that did not admire and love him? They tempted and
insnared him; and even I urged him into the path of danger. He fell, and
there was none to help. I urged reformation, and he again and again
promised, resolved, and began. But again they tempted him--even his very
best friends; yes, and that, too, when they knew his danger. They led
him on as far as it was safe for _them_ to go, and when the sweep of his
more excitable temperament took him past the point of safety and
decency, they stood by, and coolly wondered and lamented. How often was
he led on by such heartless friends to humiliating falls, and then
driven to desperation by the cold look, averted faces, and cruel sneers
of those whose medium temperament and cooler blood saved them from the
snares which they saw were enslaving him. What if _I_ had forsaken him
_then_? What account should I have rendered to God? Every time a friend
has been alienated by his comrades, it has seemed to seal him with
another seal. I am his wife--and mine will be _the last_. Henry, when I
leave him, I _know_ his eternal ruin is sealed. I cannot do it now; a
little longer--a little longer; the hour, I see, must come. I know my
duty to my children forbids me to keep them here; take them--they are my
last earthly comforts, Henry--but you must take them away. It may be--O
God--perhaps it _must be_, that I shall soon follow; but not till I have
tried _once more_. What is this present life to one who has suffered as
I have? Nothing. But eternity! O Henry! eternity--how can I abandon him
to _everlasting_ despair! Under the breaking of my heart I have borne
up. I have borne up under _all_ that can try a woman; but _this_
thought----" She stopped, and seemed struggling with herself