Tuesday passed without any intelligence of any kind reaching them. Wednesday at length arrived, and during its heavy hours, the perturbation of Emmeline’s agitated mind was painful to witness. For on what Pelham was that day to impart, she felt her future fate in life depended. With one so young, and unused to sorrow, hope still will linger, and even though against her reason and her conviction, the concluding words in Pelham’s letter sometimes for an instant caused a thrill of pleasure to her heart, and she gave way to delightful anticipations. Fitzhenry might have mistaken _her_ feelings towards him: she was aware that latterly she had given way to irritation in her manner. Pelham might let him into the real state of her affections, for she well knew that that friend had read her heart right, and, perhaps, when her husband knew all, his better feelings would prevail, and would restore him to her. But when Emmeline’s imagination had carried her thus far, the chilling conviction of the truth came at once to destroy these dreams of happiness, and make place for despair. Thus, in all the miserable agitation of doubt and anxiety, she passed the day listening to every sound, starting at the noise of every bell, and the opening of every door; and so wild were sometimes her fantasies, that she more than once thought she heard her husband’s step on the stairs, and his voice in the passage that led to her room. But the day passed, and no one came. Late in the evening, when she had nearly given up all hope, she heard the door bell ring. She started up—every pulse throbbed—unable to move from her place, she remained breathless, watching the door: it opened, but no Fitzhenry appeared; and the servant entering, brought her a letter. It was not Fitzhenry’s hand-writing. A cold tremor crept over her; the room swam round her, and the letter fell from her hands. Her mother caught it up, and seeing how unable her daughter was herself to read it, and dreading the effects of such violent agitation on her already weakened frame, she ventured to break the seal, and hastily glancing her eyes over its contents. “My child,” said she, taking Emmeline’s icy hand, “it is from your friend Mr. Pelham. He says, he could not, as he meant, come to you; that pressing public affairs oblige him to return immediately to Vienna. He is already on his way to Dover. Your husband is quite well—but——” “But what?” exclaimed Emmeline, with a look of horror. “He too is gone abroad.” “Gone!” repeated Emmeline wildly; “then it is all over:” and she was carried senseless to her bed. Her wretched parents wept and prayed by her; for hers was a sorrow to which no earthly comfort could be given. In a few hours, however, composure—that dreadful composure of exhausted nature—returned, and the first minute she could read, she asked for Mr. Pelham’s letter. It contained these words: