oice with trembling; she has no security, no confidence in your
judgment or principles; but is continually dreading the close of such
short-lived felicity; when you behave ill, her causes of terror and
misery are more than any one can tell but herself. In patient endurance
of evil, she forgets it is our duty to admonish our neighbours of their
transgressions. Since you will mistake her silence for indifference,
come with me, and I'll show you one or two of her letters--no breach of
confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.'

He followed me into the library. I sought out and put into his hands two
of Milicent's letters: one dated from London, and written during one of
his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the country,
during a lucid interval. The former was full of trouble and anguish; not
accusing him, but deeply regretting his connection with his profligate
companions, abusing Mr. Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things
against Mr. Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of her
husband's misconduct on to other men's shoulders. The latter was full of
hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness that this happiness
would not last; praising his goodness to the skies, but with an evident,
though but half-expressed wish, that it were based on a surer foundation
than the natural impulses of the heart, and a half-prophetic dread of the
fall of that house so founded on the sand,--which fall had shortly after
taken place, as Hattersley must have been conscious while he read.

Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected
pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me,
and finished the perusal at the window. At the second, I saw him, once
or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face. Could
it be to dash away a tear? When he had done, there was an interval spent
in clearing his throat and staring out of the window, and then, after
whistling a few bars of a favourite air, he turned round, gave me back
the letters, and silently shook me by the hand.

'I've been a cursed rascal, God knows,' said he, as he gave it a hearty
squeeze, 'but you see if I don't make amends for it--d--n me if I don't!'

'Don't curse yourself, Mr. Hattersley; if God had heard half your
invocations of that kind, you would have been in hell long before
now--and you cannot make amends for the past by doing your duty for the
future, inasmu