When I introduced him to the reader, in conversation with Mrs. Anson, the poison of his flattery had already tainted that weak woman’s heart. I will not follow his serpent-like course—it is sickening to mark the progress of such arts. We left him in a gay assembly in Walnut Street—we now find him in London, and, it pains me to write it, Mrs. Anson was with him. To dispel the gloom that had already overcast her features, and to feed his own inordinate vanity, Derode introduced his victim to much society, but her keen eye soon penetrated the equivocal character of those who visited her in her splendid apartments. With this discovery came the first deep sense of her utter degradation. “I will mix no more with these people,” said she to the major one day, after an unusually large party left the house. “As you please,” said he, “I was in hopes society would amuse you.” “Not _such_ society,” she replied with some dignity. The major observed the slight curl on her lip, and said, with something of a sneer,— “Your notions are elevated, my pretty republican; your visiters are people of fashion, and you know _we_ should not scrutinise character too severely.” This cruel remark pierced deeper than the base speaker intended. The deluded woman raised her eyes—those eyes, in repose so meek—to the face of Derode, and he quailed beneath their unnatural light. “True,” said she with a choking voice, “true, true!—the meanest wretch that ever bartered her soul for bread, should spurn my fellowship, and flee my infecting touch.” Her head fell on her lap, and a series of hysterical sobs threatened to end her brief career of guilt upon the spot. But it was not so to be. She recovered only to new miseries. Half tired of his new victim already, Major Derode hired a cottage a few miles from London, and, taking Mrs. Anson at her word, carried her down there to reside in lonely misery. His visits, at first frequent, soon became rare, and many days had now elapsed since she had seen him. She stood by the open casement watching the moonlight for his expected appearance, but he came not. A horseman emerged from the deep shadow of the trees, but seemed to pass on toward the turnpike. Hope sank within her, and she wished to die. She was now gathering the bitter fruits of her guilt. Her love for her destroyer was eating up her life—the scorching intensity of her passion was consuming the heart that gave it birth. “Great God!” she exclaimed with frantic impiety, “art thou just? Thou didst not endow me with strength to resist this destiny. Thou knowest it was not volition, but FATE! If for thine own unseen ends, thou hast selected me to work out thy great designs.—oh! for the love of thy meek son who was reviled on earth, make my innocence clear. I am but thy stricken agent, oh! God! I am innocent—innocent!”