A month passed over, and my note-book contained several incidents of an interesting nature; but the lovers, as I concluded them to be, occupied so much of my thoughts that I could pay but very little attention to the rest. I awaited impatiently the return of the mail which should bring the answer from Amelia. At length it came. To Henry Middleton. I instinctively caught it up. I felt as if I were an interested person, and had a right to see—that is, without breaking the seal—as much of the letter as I could; but Amelia had folded it so carefully that it defied all attempts to gather any connected sentence. Gracious heavens! what do I see? By turning up a portion of the inner fold with the blade of my knife, I read,— Yours, affectionately, AMELIA SINCLAIR. It was now certain that Amelia was lost to Henry. She had proved faithless by marrying another. How would he bear up against the thunderbolt aimed direct at his heart? I again endeavored to penetrate further into this letter: another fold was carefully raised; the words, “a parent’s curse,” “cruel necessity,” “your absence,” “forced into marriage,” burst upon my sight. I had actually worked myself into a fever, and had partly determined to keep the letter from Middleton, feeling assured that its contents would prove a death-blow to his hopes. While debating the subject with myself, he appeared at the window. I held the letter in my hand. A tremor of almost conscious guilt passed over me, and, if he had watched my countenance, he could not have failed to detect something indicative of my crime. I handed him the letter: he gazed upon the well-known hand, a smile of joy irradiated his visage; he tore it open, hastily devouring its contents; a sudden and awful change came over his face; the exclamation of “oh, God!” escaped him: he raised his right arm, pressing the distended fingers against his forehead, and fell upon the floor in horrid convulsions! * * * * * He lay upon the bed of death,—his eyes partly closed, and his hands clasped together in convulsive agony. I stood beside him, awaiting the result of the paroxysm. In a few moments he regained consciousness: he gazed languidly around the room, exclaiming, “Where am I? Who did this?” “One,” I replied, “who is willing to serve you.” “Oh, then, as you are my friend, burn that fatal letter! While it exists, I am wretched: it is the curse of the few short moments I have yet to live. I have read it until each word, nay, each letter, seemed as a coal of fire consuming my very heart-strings. It is chained to my brain, and each thought I bestow upon it acts as an electric shock to heighten my misery. I essayed to destroy it; but dared not,—cannot.” I took the letter and deliberately burned it: he watched its disappearance with a maddening glare, and, when it was entirely burned to ashes, he burst into a hysterical laugh, and fell back upon the bed.