hat death,
very shortly, must terminate my intolerable sufferings."

This affecting address pierced me to the soul; and now the
consequences of my guilt and duplicity rushed upon me like a torrent
through a bursting flood-gate. I would have resigned Emily, I would
have fled with Eugenia to some distant country, and buried our sorrows
in each other's bosoms; and, in a state of irrepressible emotion, I
proposed this step to her.

"What do I hear, my beloved?" said she (starting up with horror from
the couch on which she was sitting, with her face between her knees),
"what! is it you that would resign home, friends, character, the
possession of a virtuous woman, all, for the polluted smiles of an ----"

"Hold! hold! my Eugenia," said I; "do not, I beseech you, shock my
ears with an epithet which you do not deserve! Mine, mine, is all the
guilt; forget me, and you will still be happy."

She looked at me, then at her sweet boy, who was playing on the
carpet--but she made no answer; and then a flood of tears succeeded.

It was, indeed, a case of singular calamity for a beautiful young
creature to be placed in. She was only in her three-and-twentieth
year--and, lovely as she was, nature had scarcely had time to finish
the picture. The regrets which subdued my mind on that fatal morning
may only be conceived by those who, like me, have led a licentious
life--have, for a time, buried all moral and religious feeling, and
have been suddenly called to a full sense of their guilt, and the
misery they have entailed on the innocent. I sat down and groaned. I
cannot say I wept, for I could not weep; but my forehead burned, and
my heart was full of bitterness.

While I thus meditated, Eugenia sat with her hand on her forehead, in
a musing attitude. Had she been reverting to her former studies, and
thrown herself into the finest conceivable posture of the tragic muse,
her appearance would not have been half so beautiful and affecting.
I thought she was praying, and I think so still. The tears ran in
silence down her face; I kissed them off, and almost forgot Emily.

"I am better now, Frank," said the poor, sorrowful woman; "do not come
again until after the wedding. When will it take place?" she inquired,
with a trembling and a faltering voice.

My heart almost burst within me, as I told her, for I felt as if I
was signing a warrant for her execution. I took her in my arms, and,
tenderly embracing her, endeavoured to divert her