house, with an
air of secrecy and mystery.

"Have you yet recovered from the effects of your misfortunes?" said he.
"I have often reflected on your extraordinary fate, and pitied you from
the innermost recesses of my soul. Would you believe it? I have in store
for you an antidote against the grief of your ruined affections; but I
will not say a medicine for your pain, or a balm for your sorrow."

"For a broken heart," said I, "there is no cure in this world."

He looked at me, and wept.

"Dress yourself in this suit of my mournings," he said, "and accompany
me whither I will lead you."

I gazed at him in amazement; but he left me to put on the weeds, and to
torture myself with vain thoughts.

He returned and called me out. I followed him. We went some little
distance, and joined a funeral that was slowly proceeding to the
burying-ground. My confusion prevented me from looking at the time to
see who was chief mourner. I proceeded with the mourners, and soon stood
on the brink of the grave. When the pall was taken off, and the coffin
lowered down into the earth, my eye caught the inscription on the plate;
it was--"J. M., aged 20." "So young!" muttered I; and at the same moment
I glanced at the chief mourner. He had withdrawn his handkerchief from
his face. Our eyes met--he turned deadly pale, and made a motion as if
to leave the ground; but I sprang forward, almost _shrieking_ "Henry!"
and detained him. I looked in his face. Oh, what a change was there! His
eye quailed beneath the cold, steady, withering glance of mine. I felt
that he read the meaning of that glance, for he absolutely writhed
beneath it.

"Do not revile me, brother," murmured he; "the hand of Heaven has been
heavy upon me; my crime has already met with its punishment. Oh, my
poor, poor Julia!"

"Where, where is she?" wildly exclaimed I. He pointed to the new-made
grave?

Oh, the bitterness of that hour! We wept--the betrayer and the betrayed
wept together over the grave of their buried hopes. I arose calm and
collected. "Brother," said I, giving him my hand, "my animosity shall be
buried with her; may your own heart forgive you as freely as I do the
injury you have done me! But we must never meet more." And, with slow
steps and aching heart, I turned and left the spot.

I received a letter from Henry some time afterwards, from one of the
outports, telling me that he was just on the point of leaving England
for ever, and imploring my forgiven