It was evident, too, whatever may have been its occasion, that the knowledge of his coming awakened strange emotions in the bosom of my wife. That blush--that sudden paleness of the cheek--what was their language? I fain would have struggled against the conviction, that it denoted a guilty consciousness of the past--a guilty feeling of the future. But the mocking demon of the blind heart forced the assurance upon me. What was to be done? Ah! what? This was the question, and there was no variation in the reply which my jealous spirit made. There was but one refuge. I must pursue the same insidious policy as before. I must resort to the same subterfuge, meet them with the same smiles, disguise once more the true features of my soul; seem to shut my eyes, and afford them the same opportunities as before, in the torturing hope (fear?) that I should finally detect them in some guilty folly which would be sufficient to justify the final punishment. I must put on the aspect of indifference, the better to pursue the vocation of the spy. Base necessity, but still, as I then fancied, a necessity not the less. Ah I was I not a thing to be pitied? Was ever any case more pitiable than mine? I ask not this question with any hope that an answer may be found to justify my conduct. It is not the less pitiable--nay, it is more--that no such answer can be found. My folly is not the less a thing of pity, because it is also a thing of scorn. That was the pity--and yet, I was most severely tried. Deep were my sufferings! Strong was that demon within me--I care not how engendered, whether by the fault and folly of others, or by my own--still it was strong. If I was guilty--base, blind--was I not also suffering? Never did I inflict on the bosom of Julia Clifford, so deep a pang as I daily--nay, hourly, inflicted upon my own. She was a victim, true--but was I less so! But she was innocently a victim, therefore, less a sufferer, whatever her sufferings, than me! Let none condemn or curse me, till they have asked what curse I have already undergone. I live!--they will say. Ah! me! They must ask what is the value of life, not to themselves, but to a crushed, a blasted heart, like mine! But I hurry forward with my pangs rather than my story.