ersation with Werther, she found how painful to herself it
would be to decline his visits, and knew how severely he would suffer
from their separation.

She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually that Werther
would not return before Christmas Eve; and soon afterward Albert went
on horseback to see a person in the neighbourhood, with whom he had to
transact some business which would detain him all night.

Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family were near, and she gave
herself up to the reflections that silently took possession of her mind.
She was for ever united to a husband whose love and fidelity she had
proved, to whom she was heartily devoted, and who seemed to be a special
gift from Heaven to ensure her happiness. On the other hand, Werther had
become dear to her. There was a cordial unanimity of sentiment between
them from the very first hour of their acquaintance, and their long
association and repeated interviews had made an indelible impression
upon her heart. She had been accustomed to communicate to him every
thought and feeling which interested her, and his absence threatened to
open a void in her existence which it might be impossible to fill. How
heartily she wished that she might change him into her brother,--that
she could induce him to marry one of her own friends, or could
reestablish his intimacy with Albert.

She passed all her intimate friends in review before her mind, but found
something objectionable in each, and could decide upon none to whom she
would consent to give him.

Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indistinctly that her
own real but unexpressed wish was to retain him for herself, and her
pure and amiable heart felt from this thought a sense of oppression
which seemed to forbid a prospect of happiness. She was wretched: a dark
cloud obscured her mental vision.

It was now half-past six o'clock, and she heard Werther's step on the
stairs. She at once recognised his voice, as he inquired if she were at
home. Her heart beat audibly--we could almost say for the first time--at
his arrival. It was too late to deny herself; and, as he entered, she
exclaimed, with a sort of ill concealed confusion, "You have not kept
your word!" "I promised nothing," he answered. "But you should have
complied, at least for my sake," she continued. "I implore you, for both
our sakes."

She scarcely knew what she said or did; and sent for some friends, who,
by their pre