Such a letter was not easily written; and Emmeline had some time to ruminate on her situation, before he returned. At last he came. He seemed in the feverish state of one who has taken a desperate resolution: he hurried up to Emmeline; asked her if she was not fatigued? if he should ring for candles? and then, without waiting for an answer, rung the bell violently till it broke. His hand shook so much, that he tried in vain to tie the string together again. Emmeline smiling said, she supposed she was more used to strings and knots, and begged to assist him. As she took the cord, her hand accidentally touched his—it was icy cold. Reynolds, the old servant, brought in the candles, and asked, if his lordship, “if my lady,” would not have any supper? any wine and water? “Yes, some wine directly,” said Fitzhenry, as if hardly conscious of his demand. When it came, he endeavoured to pour out some for Emmeline; but twice, from the nervous shaking of his hand, he was forced to put down the bottle. Emmeline was really alarmed. “Surely,” again, she said timidly, “you are very unwell.” He did not seem to heed her, but drank off a large goblet of wine, and then, with a steadier voice and manner said—”I have something on my mind which I must make known to you—perhaps I should have done it sooner—I thought it best for both of us to write it,” and he held out his letter—”Take it with you into your own room,” he added, seeing she was going to break the seal. He took up a candle, gave it her, went with her to the door, put his hand on the lock, and said—”When you have read this, forgive me if you can;” then hastily seizing her hand, which he almost convulsively grasped, he left her. What poor Emmeline’s feelings were, can be better imagined than described. In one short moment, a thousand vague fears and horrors passed through her mind. It was _her_ turn now to tremble, as, with the dreaded letter in her hand, she hurried to her own room. She there found her maid, whose presence disconcerted her much; but she resolved to take off her gown speedily, and then dismiss her. Never before, she thought, had her attendant been so slow and tedious. She entangled or pulled every string into a knot. At last, her gown off—that beautiful lace gown in which her poor mother had that morning, with so much pride, arrayed her—all her bridal finery laid aside, she told her maid she wanted nothing more. “Nothing more, my lady!” said the maid astonished; “shall I not put up your ladyship’s hair? Shall I not wait to take away your candle? Mrs. Benson desired me to”——and she stopped short. “No, I want nothing,” again said Emmeline, in a voice she could hardly command. The woman stared, busied herself still some time in the room, and, at length, reluctantly departed. When she was gone, Emmeline sat for several minutes with the letter in her hand, before she had courage to open it. At length, taking a violent resolution, she broke the seal, and read as follows:—