one of which I cannot speak.'

"I begged her not to reveal the cause of her affliction, if to do so
were at all in violation of what she deemed right; but to accept my
deepest sympathies, and to put it in my power, if that were
possible, to mitigate, in some degree, the pain of mind she was
suffering.

"'That you cannot do,' said she. 'It is beyond the reach of human
aid.'

"'May Heaven, then, give you strength to bear it,' I returned, with
emotion.

"'Heaven only can,' she replied in a subdued voice.

"I could say no more, for my ignorance of the cause of her distress
put it out of my power to offer consolation, more particularly as it
was her expressed wish that I should remain in ignorance. I staid an
hour with her, during which time I learned that her husband had been
suddenly called to New York on business. It was one of the
unhappiest hours I ever spent in my life. On going away, I could not
help recalling the conversation I had once held with Sarah Corbin
about Mr. Eaverson, nor help feeling that there might be too much
truth in her declarations that she believed him to be a man without
honour or virtue. There was no doubt in my mind that Harriet's
distress was in some way connected with her husband's absence, and
it occurred to me that the letter I had seen upon the floor, and
which she concealed so eagerly, might not have been intended for her
eyes, and might contain things which for her to know would be fatal
to her peace through life. In this, my conjectures were of course
true.

"I called in to see Mrs. Eaverson on the next day, reluctantly, but
from a sense of duty. I found her calm, but pale, and with a look of
distress. She said but little. No allusion whatever was made to the
condition in which I had found her on the previous afternoon. I sat
only half an hour, and then went away. I could not stay longer, for
my presence seemed oppressive to her, and hers was equally so to me.

"On the third day succeeding that on which Mr. Eaverson went to New
York, I saw a newspaper paragraph headed, 'Melancholy Circumstances.'
It related, briefly, that the daughter of respectable and wealthy
parents in New York had been deeply wronged about a year previous
by an unprincipled cousin, whom she passionately loved. The
consequence was, that the young man had to leave the city, under
the promise of never returning to it, unless he consented to marry
his cousin. This penalty was imposed by the father of the girl,