ction on the innocent interest that I had taken in her
daughter. Careless of the difference in rank, blind to the malady that
was killing me, she was now bent on separating Rothsay and Susan, by
throwing the girl into the arms of a rich husband like myself!

"You are wasting your breath," I told her; "I don't believe one word you
say to me."

"Believe Susan, then!" cried the reckless woman. "Let me bring her here.
If she's too shamefaced to own the truth, look at her--that's all I
ask--look at her, and judge for yourself!"

This was intolerable. In justice to Susan, in justice to Rothsay, I
insisted on silence. "No more of it!" I said. "Take care how you provoke
me. Don't you see that I am ill? don't you see that you are irritating
me to no purpose?"

She altered her tone. "I'll wait," she said, quietly, "while you compose
yourself."

With those words, she walked to the window, and stood there with
her back toward me. Was the wretch taking advantage of my helpless
condition? I stretched out my hand to ring the bell, and have her sent
away--and hesitated to degrade Susan's mother, for Susan's sake. In
my state of prostration, how could I arrive at a decision? My mind was
dreadfully disturbed; I felt the imperative necessity of turning my
thoughts to some other subject. Looking about me, the letters on the
table attracted my attention. Mechanically, I took them up; mechanically
I put them down again. Two of them slipped from my trembling fingers;
my eyes fell on the uppermost of the two. The address was in the
handwriting of the good friend with whom Rothsay was sailing.

Just as I had been speaking of Rothsay, here was the news of him for
which I had been waiting.

I opened the letter and read these words:

"There is, I fear, but little hope for our friend--unless this girl on
whom he has set his heart can (by some lucky change of circumstances)
become his wife. He has tried to master his weakness; but his own
infatuation is too much for him. He is really and truly in a state of
despair. Two evenings since--to give you a melancholy example of what I
mean--I was in my cabin, when I heard the alarm of a man overboard. The
man was Rothsay. My sailing-master, seeing that he was unable to swim,
jumped into the sea and rescued him, as I got on deck. Rothsay declares
it to have been an accident; and everybody believes him but myself.
I know the state of his mind. Don't be alarmed; I will have him well
looked after;