In vain, for three long days, did Miss Milner wait impatiently for this submission; not a sign, not a symptom appeared—nay, Lord Elmwood had, since the evening of Lord Frederick’s visit, (which, at the time it happened, seemed to affect him so exceedingly) become just the same man he was before the circumstance occurred; except, indeed, that he was less thoughtful, and now and then cheerful; but without any appearance that his cheerfulness was affected. Miss Milner was vext—she was alarmed—but was ashamed to confess those humiliating sensations, even to Miss Woodley—she supported, therefore, when in company, the vivacity she had so long assumed; but gave way, when alone, to a still greater degree of melancholy than usual. She no longer applauded her scheme of bringing Lord Frederick to the house, and trembled, lest, on some pretence, he should dare to call again. But as these were feelings which her pride would not suffer her to disclose even to her friend, who would have condoled with her, their effects were doubly poignant. Sitting in her dressing-room one forenoon with Miss Woodley, and burthened with a load of grief that she blushed to acknowledge, while her companion was charged with apprehensions that she too was loath to disclose, one of Lord Elmwood’s valets tapped gently at the door, and delivered a letter to Miss Milner. By the person who brought it, as well as by the address, she knew it came from Lord Elmwood, and laid it down upon her toilet, as if she was fearful to unfold it. “What is that?” said Miss Woodley. “A letter from Lord Elmwood,” replied Miss Milner. “Good Heaven!” exclaimed Miss Woodley. “Nay,” returned she, “it is, I have no doubt, a letter to beg my pardon.” But her reluctance to open it plainly evinced she did not think so. “Do not read it yet,” said Miss Woodley. “I do not intend it,” replied she, trembling extremely. “Will you dine first?” said Miss Woodley. “No—for not knowing its contents, I shall not know how to conduct myself towards him.” Here a silence followed. Miss Milner took up the letter—looked earnestly at the handwriting on the outside—at the seal—inspected into its folds—and seemed to wish, by some equivocal method, to guess at the contents, without having the courage to come at the certain knowledge of them. Curiosity, at length, got the better of her fears—she opened the letter, and, scarce able to hold it while she read, she read the following words:— “Madam, “While I considered you only as my ward, my friendship for you was unbounded—when I looked upon you as a woman formed to grace a fashionable circle, my admiration equalled my friendship—and when fate permitted me to behold you in the tender light of my betrothed wife, my soaring love left those humbler passions at a distance.