had now a
noble framework to grasp round, and would in time form a beautiful
domestic bower, beneath whose shade all household joys and graces would
bloom and multiply.

I have anticipated the reception of this letter, but I feared I might
forget to mention it. It is delightful to see a fine character gradually
wrought out of seemingly rough and unpromising elements. It is beautiful
to witness the triumph of pure, disinterested affection in the heart of
woman. It is sweet to know that the angel of wedded love scatters
thornless flowers in some happy homes,--that there are some thresholds
not sprinkled by blood, but guarded by confidence, which the _destroying
demon_ of the household is not permitted to pass over.

I do not like to turn back to myself, lest they who follow me should
find the path too shadowy and thorny. But is it not said that they who
go forth weeping, bearing precious seed, shall come again rejoicing,
bending under the weight of golden sheaves?

I wrote to Ernest for the first time, for we had never been parted
before. Again and again I commenced, and threw down the pen in despair.
My heart seemed locked, closed as with Bastile bars. What words of mine
could pierce through the cloud of infamy in which his remembrance
wrapped me? He would not believe my strange, improbable tale. He would
cast it from him as a device of the evil spirit, and brand me with a
deeper curse. No! if he was so willing to cast me off, to leave me so
coldly and cruelly, without one farewell line, one wish to know whether
I were living or dead, let him be. Why should I intrude my vindication
on him, when he cared not to hear it? He had no right to believe me
guilty. Had a winged spirit from another sphere come and told me that
_he_ was false, I would have spurned the accusation, and clung to him
more closely and more confidingly.

"But you knew his infirmity," whispered accusing conscience, "even
before you loved him; and have you not seen him writhing at your feet in
agonies of remorse, for the indulgence of passions more torturing to
himself than to you! It is you who have driven him from country and
home, innocently, it is true, but he is not less a wanderer and an
exile. Write and tell him the simple, holy truth, then folding your
hands meekly over your heart, leave the result to the disposal of the
God of futurity."

Then words came like water rushing through breaking ice. They came
without effort or volition, and I kn