e spectacle of woe before
us. At length Eliza rose to retire. "Julia," said she, "you will call at
my chamber as you pass to your own?" I assented. She then approached her
mamma, fell upon her knees before her, and clasping her hand, said, in
broken accents, "O madam, can you forgive a wretch, who has forfeited
your love, your kindness, and your compassion?" "Surely, Eliza," said
she, "you are not that being! No, it is impossible! But however great
your transgression, be assured of my forgiveness, my compassion, and my
continued love." Saying this, she threw her arms about her daughter's
neck, and affectionately kissed her. Eliza struggled from her embrace,
and looking at her with wild despair, exclaimed, "This is too much! O,
this unmerited goodness is more than I can bear!" She then rushed
precipitately out of the room, and left us overwhelmed in sympathy and
astonishment.

When Mrs. Wharton had recovered herself a little, she observed that
Eliza's brain was evidently disordered. "Nothing else," continued she,
"could impel her to act in this extraordinary manner." At first she was
resolved to follow her; but I dissuaded her from it, alleging that, as
she had desired me to come into her chamber, I thought it better for me
to go alone. She acquiesced, but said she should not think of going to
bed, but would, however, retire to her chamber, and seek consolation
there. I bade her good night, and went up to Eliza, who took me by the
hand, and led me to the toilet, upon which she laid the two enclosed
letters, the one to her mamma, and the other to me. "These," said she,
"contain what I had not resolution to express. Promise me, Julia, that
they shall not be opened till to-morrow morning." "I will," said I. "I
have thought and wept," continued she, "till I have almost exhausted my
strength and my reason. I would now obtain a little respite, that I may
prepare my mind for the account I am one day to give at a higher
tribunal than that of earthly friends. For this purpose, what I have
written, and what I shall yet say to you, must close the account between
you and me." "I have certainly no balance against you," said I. "In my
breast you are fully acquitted. Your penitential tears have obliterated
your guilt and blotted out your errors with your Julia. Henceforth, be
they all forgotten. Live, and be happy." "Talk not," said she, "of life;
it would be a vain hope, though I cherished it myself.

'That I must die, it is my onl