son's estimation. Besides, there was the risk, if
I had allowed Philip to remain long away from me, of losing--no, while
I keep my beauty I cannot be in such danger as that--let me say, of
permitting time and absence to weaken my hold on him. However sullen and
silent he may be, when we meet--and I find him in that condition far too
often--I can, sooner or later, recall him to his brighter self. My eyes
preserve their charm, my talk can still amuse him, and, better even than
that, I feel the answering thrill in him, which tells me how precious my
kisses are--not too lavishly bestowed! But the time when I am obliged
to leave him to himself is the time that I dread. How do I know that
his thoughts are not wandering away to Eunice? He denies it; he declares
that he only went to the farmhouse to express his regret for his own
thoughtless conduct, and to offer her the brotherly regard due to the
sister of his promised wife. Can I believe it? Oh, what would I not give
to be able to believe it! How can I feel sure that her refusal to see
him was not a cunning device to make him long for another interview, and
plan perhaps in private to go back and try again. Marriage! Nothing will
quiet these frightful doubts of mine, nothing will reward me for all
that I have suffered, nothing will warm my heart with the delightful
sense of triumph over Eunice, but my marriage to Philip. And what does
he say, when I urge it on him?--yes, I have fallen as low as that, in
the despair which sometimes possesses me. He has his answer, always the
same, and always ready: "How are we to live? where is the money?" The
maddening part of it is that I cannot accuse him of raising objections
that don't exist. We are poorer than ever here, since my father's
illness--and Philip's allowance is barely enough to suffice him as a
single man. Oh, how I hate the rich!

It was useless to think of going to bed. How could I hope to sleep, with
my head throbbing, and my thoughts in this disturbed state? I put on my
comfortable dressing-gown, and sat down to try what reading would do to
quiet my mind.

I had borrowed the book from the Library, to which I have been a
subscriber in secret for some time past. It was an old volume, full
of what we should now call Gossip; relating strange adventures, and
scandalous incidents in family history which had been concealed from
public notice.

One of these last romances in real life caught a strong hold on my
interest.

It