"The announcement of Mr. Lovell's marriage with my grand-daughter, Alice, will probably have surprised you disagreeably. As he has, I find, written by this day's post to communicate it to you, I take the liberty of addressing to you a few lines on the subject. I grieve that myself or any one belonging to me should be the means of causing you grief or annoyance. But, Madam, remember who it was that said, 'Judge not, and you shall not be judged; condemn not, and you shall not be condemned.' Obey that injunction now, and visit not the sins of others on an angel of goodness and purity,--the dust of whose feet, some whom you cherish in your bosom are not worthy to wipe off. I love you, Mrs. Middleton, and would not willingly give you pain; but do not try me too severely by ill-usage of that child, whom my dying son bequeathed to me, and who is now your brother's wife. As God will judge one day betwixt you and me, be kind to her; her presence and her prayers may sanctify your home, and bring down a blessing on your head. If you are tempted to say in your heart, 'Why did this angel of goodness and purity consent to a secret marriage?--why did this saint, whose prayers are to bring down a blessing on our home, enter our family without our sanction?'--if you are tempted to say this, Mrs. Middleton--yet say it not. Alice has lived alone with her flowers, and with her Bible. She has never opened a novel; she has never conversed with any one but me, and with him who is now her husband, and that but little. She knows nothing of the world and its customs. She was asked as Rebecca was asked--'Wilt thou go with this man?' and she said 'I will go.' I told her it was her duty to marry Mr. Lovell, and she married him; and if you should say, Mrs. Middleton, that it was not her duty to marry him, and that I deceived her as well as you,--again I say, 'Judge not, condemn not;' and thus you may escape a fearful judgment--an awful condemnation." "Is not that letter the very height of cant and impertinence?" said my aunt, as I laid it down on the table. "It is a strange letter," I answered; "but what she says of Alice I am certain must be true. It tallies exactly with the impression she made upon me, and with what I should have supposed her part to have been in the whole affair." "But how can her grandmother justify her own conduct to herself, if it is so?" "God only knows," I answered; "but if you love me, my dearest aunt,--if you wish me to be happy,--if my supplications have any weight with you..." "_If_ they have, Ellen?" "No, no!" I exclaimed,--"not _if_--I will not say _if_ they have, for I _know_ they have. I know you love me, and I know that you will do all you can to make Henry happy with Alice. I shall not have a moment's peace if they are not happy." "Angel!" said my aunt, as she pressed her lips to my cheek. I drew back with a thrill of horror.