“‘I don’t know. But Mr. Edgerton went away at the same time. We think she went with him.’ “Belmont caught hold of the door, and leaned hard against it. “‘Where are your sisters?’ he asked. “‘Catherine has been sick ever since. I can’t tell what is the matter with her; but she cries all the time. Mary is in her room with her.’ “‘Does nobody in the house know where your mother is gone?’ “‘No, sir. She went away before any body was up. But there is a letter for you in your room.’ “Belmont tried to run up stairs, but his knees trembled so, and were so weak, that it was with difficulty that he could support himself. When he reached his room, he grasped the letter to which his daughter had referred, and sunk into a chair. It was sometime before, with his quivering hands, he could break the seal, and then many minutes passed before he could read a line. The blasting contents were as follows: “‘My Husband,—How can I break to you the dreadful truth that must be told? Long and devotedly as I have loved you, and still love you, I am impelled to leave you, under the influence of a stronger, more fiery, and intenser passion. I am mad with the bewildering excitement in which I am whirling, as in the charmed circle of a fascinating serpent. I do not love you less, but I love another more. Forgive me, if you can forgive, and in mercy both to you and to your unhappy wife, forget me. You know not how I have been tempted and tried; you know not how, by the most imperceptible approaches, the citadel of my heart has been taken. God forgive him who has wronged you, and her who permitted herself to be made an instrument in that wrong. You will be far happier than she can ever be. As for my chil—’ “Here the paper was blotted and soiled, as if by a gush of tears. It contained no word more. “An hour afterward, when Mary Belmont and her younger sister stole softly into their father’s chamber, they found him sitting motionless in a chair, with the letter he had read crumpled in his hand. His eyes were closed; and he did not open them as they drew near. They spoke to him in timid voices, but he did not look up, nor appear to hear them. “‘Father! dear father!’ they said, coming up close to his side. “Slowly he drew an arm around each, and pressed them tightly to his bosom—but he did not utter a word. “‘Papa, where has mother gone?’ asked Mary, in a quivering voice. “‘I do not know,’ was the low, mournful reply. “‘Will she never come back?’ “‘No—never!’