Thus repulsed as it were from the affections of her father, all her domestic happiness destroyed, and subjected more and more to the insults of a low, vulgar-minded woman, it would seem the time had come when Margaret might redeem the promise made to Lelland, that should any thing occur which might induce her to waive her decision, she would write to him. A doubt of his constancy had never darkened her mind; she judged of him by her own true heart, which never could know change. If at first she hesitated, it was from maidenly timidity, not distrust; but when she reflected what happiness those few brief lines would cause him, she hesitated no longer. The letter was written. To her cousin, the specious Wingate, she frankly confided her resolution, and asked his assistance in forwarding her letter safely and surely to the hands of Lelland. Skillfully as he wore the mask, he was almost betrayed as he listened to the artless details of Margaret, who faithfully related to him the promise each had made at their last sad parting. Recovering himself, however, he promised to secure the safety of her letter, even if it should include the necessity of journeying himself to place it in his hands. With thanks warm and sincere for his kindness and sympathy, the deceived, trusting girl gave her letter to his charge—that precious letter, which thus, like the dove, went forth to seek rest for her weary soul. “Ah! think you, my pretty cousin, I value my own purposes so lightly as to risk the work of years within the delicate folds of this envelope!” exclaimed Wingate, as he entered his own apartment, and crushing the letter of Margaret in his hand as he spoke. “I should be a fool, indeed—no, no, fair lady, content you that my eye alone may read this pretty sentimental effusion. Now, thanks to my lucky stars, this letter proves almost a sure passport to my desires—ha! ha! pretty little fool, how she will wait for an answer! And what then? Did she not entreat _silence if he no longer loved_—‘let there be forever silence or joy between us’—were her words—_silence_—ay, of that I will take care, and then she is mine—mine as surely as yonder setting sun will rise again! With your leave, Mr. Richard Lelland—” and thus violating every honorable principle, Wingate tore asunder the seal of affection, and ran his eye over the sacred contents: “D—n him!” he exclaimed, hurling the letter across the table with a look almost demoniacal: “I could tear his very heart out—his heart!—why here it is—yes, fond fool, why here is his very life—his soul!”—once more snatching the letter—“and thus I hold him in my power!—if more were needed to spur on my revenge of a hated, detested rival, I have it here in these tender, trustful lines. By heavens it turns my very blood to gall to find with what fidelity that man has been loved—while I—but no matter—your letter goes no further, fair cousin, and thus do I annihilate your fond hopes and