“Why, reflection must have convinced you that it was an imprudent step to leave your husband; nay, tears are useless now,—the frolic was pleasant enough while it lasted, but it is time to think of more serious matters. My advice to you is, that you immediately return home, solicit your husband’s forgiveness, and no doubt that will be the end of the affair. For myself, you must know it—and it is best you should learn it at once—my pecuniary involvements make it imperative on me to marry immediately—the sale of this furniture will enable you—” But his voice fell on a dull ear. Mrs. Anson heard nothing after the word “marry,” and she lay in a death-like swoon. Finding she did not revive immediately, Derode consigned her to the care of her maid, and hastily wrote the following lines:— “Madam,—Our unfortunate connexion must be broken off at once. I can see you no more. I enclose you twenty pounds, a sum sufficient to bear your expenses to America. My last command is, that you quit this cottage to-morrow morning. “Yours, “Derode.” He gave the note to the girl, for her mistress, and left the house. “How do you feel now, madam?” enquired the maid, as Mrs. Anson opened her heavy eyes, and pressed her hands against her temples, as if endeavoring to collect her thoughts, “can I do anything for you, madam?” “Yes; assist me to rise; bring my bonnet and shawl;—thank you. You have been very kind to me my good girl; take this ring—it is of some value—keep it for the sake of her whom no living thing regards.” “But, dear madam,” affectionately enquired the girl, “for heaven’s sake, where are you going? You will not leave the house to-night? you are ill—weak—a storm threatens,—there—the thunder mutters already, and the rain is plashing in big drops on the broad leaves of that strange-looking tree at the window. It is midnight, and will be broad day before you can reach the nearest part of London. The major said you might stay till morning,—and, oh! I had forgot, here is a letter he left for you.” The hapless woman took the note mechanically; no ray of hope gave brightness to her eye—no emotion lighted up her features as she broke the seal. Misery had chilled her heart’s blood—despair had unstrung the chords of life. She glanced over the lines, and dropping the letter and bank note on the floor, supported herself for a moment by a chair. She rallied her strength, and saying, “farewell, my good Martha,” staggered forth into the dreary night.