"Have you not heard me, Mr. Middleton? Have you not understood me? I repeat to you, solemnly and earnestly, with all the conviction that a minute acquaintance with the sad history of her life can give, that your wife is not guilty of the crime which you impute to her; and that she has only loved you too passionately; only feared you too much. The pride, the sternness of your character, acted fatally upon a nature like hers. Beware, that, even now, God does not look down upon you both, and judge _you_ the betrayer, and _her_ the betrayed. _One_ hour's indulgence, _one_ moment's confidence, might have brought her to your feet, to confess, not a crime, but a fact, 'which has been a covering to her eyes all the days of her life;' an accident which, in a fatal hour of weakness, she concealed; an accident which threw her into the power of those who, in hatred, or under the impulse of a guilty passion, sought to blight her peace, and ruin her virtue. That love which you doubt, in the place of a higher principle, saved her from guilt, and only left her a prey to the most protracted agony. Read this letter--it is from the man who vainly sought to gain her love, by wringing her heart--read this journal--read this confession of many sins, of many fears, of much sorrow; but own, as you read it, that her love to you was wonderful, and passing the common love of woman; and then come to forgive, and be forgiven, ere God takes to himself the being whom you once swore at the altar to keep, to comfort, and to cherish, until death parted you." Edward Middleton made no answer to this solemn address. He appeared stunned and bewildered. He stretched out his hand in silence for the papers which Mr. Lacy held;--he wrung his hand, and took leave of him. He watched his carriage out of sight, and then locked the door, and remained alone for many hours. A fearful communing with himself took place that night. He was a calm and a stern man; but bursts of passion shook his frame, and terrible words sprung from his lips, in the solitude of that night's watch; and tears, those dreadful tears which nothing but agony wrings from manhood's eye, fell on the pages before him. Who can tell what he suffered?--who can tell how he struggled? what curses rose to his lips?--what mental prayers recalled them?--what fierce anger burned within him?--what returning tenderness overcame him? At seven o'clock the following morning, an express from Elmsley brought the intelligence of Henry Lovell's death. An hour afterwards Edward Middleton was on his way to the cathedral town of--. It was on a mild day, as the sun was shining brightly on the leafless groves of Hillscombe, its slanting rays gilding the lawn on which the house stood, that a carriage drove slowly up the avenue. When it stopped at the door, and the step was let down, Edward Middleton sprang out, lifted his wife in his arms, and carried her into the library.