"Because I think there would be an indelicacy in offering so soon to re-unite yourself to him. I would have you, though a wife, 'be wooed, and not unsought be won;' but I should not dare to give you this advice, were I not convinced that this is the feeling of Pendarves. Besides, I also feel that he would be less oppressed by your superior virtue, if he found it leavened by a little female pride and resentment." "Well, well, I will consider the matter," said I. The next day, and the day after, De Walden called and saw Pendarves. "He is very unhappy," said he; "though he might be the envy of all the first men in Paris. The most beautiful woman in it, who lives in the first style, is fallen in love with him; but he refuses all invitations to her house, does not answer her _billets-doux_, and rejects all her advances." "He does not love her, I suppose?" I replied, masking my satisfaction in a scornful smile. "No, Helen. He says, and I believe him, that he never really loved any one but you; and for La Beauvais, who persecutes him with visits as well as letters, he has a kind of aversion. Believe me, that at this moment he has all my pity, and much of my esteem; and could I envy the man who, having called you his, is conscious of the guilt of having left you, I trust I should soon have an opportunity of envying Pendarves." Oh! the waywardness of the human heart; or, was it only the waywardness of mine? Now that I found my husband was anxious to return to me, I felt less anxious for the re-union; and having gained my point, I began to consider with more severity the faults which I was called upon to overlook; and though I had reclaimed my wanderer, I began to consider whether the reward was equal to the pains bestowed. And also I felt a little mortified to find De Walden so willing to effect our union, and so active in his endeavours to further it. These obliquities of feeling were, however, only temporary; and I had actually written to Pendarves, by the advice of De Walden, assuring him, all was so much forgiven and forgotten, that I was prepared to quit Paris with him, and go with him the world over--when the most dreadful intelligence reached me! even at this hour I cannot recall that moment without agony. I must lay down my pen-- * * * * *