“What am I to do--what say--” demanded her trembling epistle, “should they go so far? Am I to declare the truth?--can I tell to strange ears that it is my mother who forces this cruel sacrifice upon me? I dread I can not. I fear that my soul and voice will equally fail me. I tremble, dear Edward, when I think that the awful moment may find me speechless, and my consent may be assumed from my silence. Save me from this trial, dearest Edward; for I fear everything now--and fear myself--my unhappy weakness of nerve and spirit more than all. Do not leave me to this trial of my strength--for I have none. Save me if you can!” It may be readily believed that I needed little soliciting to exertion after this. The words of this letter occasioned an alarm in my mind, little less--though of a different kind--than that which prevailed in hers. I knew the weakness of hers--I knew hers--and felt the apprehension that she might fail at the proper moment, even more vividly than she expressed it. This letter did not take me by surprise. Before it was received, and soon after the first with which she had favored me, by the hands of the friendly physician, I had begun my preparations with the view to our clandestine marriage. I was only now required to quicken them. The obstacle, on the face of it, was, comparatively, a small one. To get her from a dwelling, in which, though her steps were watched, she was not exactly a prisoner, was scarcely a difficulty, where the lover and the lady are equally willing.