er, George, how strangely I behaved
at that interview, in which you asked me to fix the day for our
wedding. Let me explain. A few hours previous, while I was lost in one
of my occasional fits of melancholy moping, the voice of Phillip came to
my ears with startling distinctness. The voice said Martha, you must
remain true to me! I love you as devotedly as ever! I am determined,
never to give you up! I am coming home to wed you! I am surely coming!
Wait for me! These words kept ringing in my ears, like the tolling of a
funeral bell. They thrilled me through and through! The barriers of my
pride gave way. The returning tide of my love for Phillip, swept in upon
me with such force, that my heart almost ceased to beat! I was faint,
deadly faint! When I recovered consciousness and afterwards, at our
interview, I was absolutely wretched! Your request, added to my anguish.
I was powerless to answer, I could only beg for more time. All through
that dreadful week, I strove to convince myself that my ears had
deceived me, that the voice was not real, only a phasma, a
hallucination, born of my fits of melancholy. Unfortunately, I finally
succeeded!

"'Now, George, you shall hear the sequel, the climax of my wretchedness.
The day before your mother died, I received a long letter from Phillip.
It was written at Rome. Every line of that letter, was eloquent with
Phillip's steadfast devotion, and love for me. In brief, a complete
verification of what the warning voice had told me. His parents had
relented. He was coming home to make me his bride. He had planned to
arrive at Boston, in time to celebrate the New Year. He spoke of a long
letter, which he had written to me, just on the eve of his going abroad.
In that letter he had assured me of his undying love, of his
determination never to give me up. In closing, he had begged me to wait
for him, to remain true to him. He had repeated its contents, because he
had been constantly haunted with the idea that the letter in question,
had failed to reach me. And so it had.

"'This, George, is the summing up of my misery! It has filled my heart
with the anguish of despair! I can never love anyone but Phillip! I
cannot marry you, George! I cannot! It would be an unpardonable sin
against you, against my own soul! What shall I do? What can I do? What
atonement can I ever make, for the shame, the humiliation, the
suffering, which I have brought into your life?'

"In this brief sketch, Fillmor