The sound of measured steps in that room, like those of a person suffering from impatience and anxiety of mind, reminded her that she must answer her husband’s letter. But, what could she write? She took her pen, but for long had not power to express a thought. At last, not trusting herself to look a second time at what she had said, she hastily wrote, and folded up a paper, containing the following words. “I will not curse, I will not upbraid you; yet I have been most cruelly used and deceived. Your wishes shall be laws to me. You need apprehend no childish weaknesses or complaints on my part. In time, you will learn better to know her whom you have made your wife. And to God alone shall I apply for relief or assistance under any trial that may assail me. “EMMELINE.” She opened the door into the gallery—all was silent. With hurried, trembling steps, she went into the drawing-room, placed her letter on a conspicuous part of the table, involuntarily looked round the room, as if to recall some of those gay, bright anticipations with which she had that day first entered it; and then, with noiseless steps, regained her own apartment. As she went to it, she saw light beneath the door of Lord Fitzhenry’s room. Satisfied that he was still up, and that he would look for her letter, she closed her door, and sat breathless, with flushed cheeks, to hear him pass into the drawing-room for it. In a little while, she heard him tread softly along the gallery. At the door of her room he paused—then went hastily on. On his return, he again paused. “He listens,” thought Emmeline, “to hear if all is quiet, and whether the insensible fool whom he has made his wife sleeps soundly;”—and tears of mortification again made their way down her face; again the door of her husband’s room closed, and all was quiet. The dawn of day found poor Emmeline in the same listening attitude in which she had sat when Fitzhenry passed her room—her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on vacancy. She was roused by the extinguishing candle falling into its socket, and looked up astonished to see broad day light. She went to the window to throw open the sash, that the fresh air might cool her eyes and cheeks: in drawing up the blind for the purpose, the string caught the rings on her finger. She started on seeing her wedding ring, and, above it, the circles of diamonds, rubies, &c., the presents of doating parents, and perhaps envious friends, on the morning of that ceremony, which was, they imagined, to secure her future happiness. “Alas!” thought she, “how they were mistaken!” Emmeline soon felt chilled by the fresh morning air. She hastily bound up her loose locks, laid herself on her bed, and the fatigue of her mind, (a feeling so new to her,) procured for her the rest she needed.