in my very first
epistle, say what I am now saying; but the same weakness and
hesitation remained. Many times I wrote all I wished to say, folded
and sealed the letter, and--cast it into the flames. I had not the
courage to send it. Foolish weakness! I tremble to think of the
consequences that may follow. Dear Anna!--I will thus address you
until you forbid the tender familiarity, and bid my yearning heart
despair--Dear Anna! write me at once and let me know my fate. Do not
wait for a second post. Until I hear from you I shall be the most
unhappy of mortals. If your heart is still free--if no promise to
another has passed your lips, let me urge my suit by all the
tenderest, holiest, and purest, considerations. No one can love you
with a fervour and devotion surpassing mine; no heart can beat
responsive to your own more surely than mine; no one can cherish you
in his heart of hearts, until life shall cease, more tenderly than I
will cherish you. But I will write no more. Why need I? I shall
count the days and hours until your answer come.

"Yours, in life and death,

"H. WESTFIELD."

Tears gushed from the eyes of Anna W----, as she read the last line
of this unlooked for epistle, her whole frame trembled, and her
heart beat heavily in her bosom. It was a long time before she was
sufficiently composed to answer the letter. When she did answer, it
was, briefly, thus--

"BALTIMORE, June 28, 18--.

"MR. H. WESTFIELD.

"Dear Sir:--Had your letter of the 18th, come a week earlier, my
answer might have been different. Now I can only bid you forget me.

"Yours, &c.

ANNA."

"Forget you?" was the answer received to this. "Forget you? Bid me
forget myself! No, I can never forget you. A week!--a week earlier?
Why should a single week fix our fates for ever. You are not
married. That I learn from my friend. It need not, then, be too
late. If you love me, as I infer from your letter, throw yourself
upon the magnanimity of the man to whom you are betrothed, and he
will release you from your engagement. I know him. He is
generous-minded, and proud. Tell him he has not and cannot have your
whole heart. That will be enough. He will bid you be free."

The reply of Anna was in these few words. "Henry Westfield; it is
too late. Do not write to me again. I cannot listen to such language
as you use to me without dishonour."

This half-maddened the young man. He wrote several times urging Anna
by every consideration he c