“I have acted very foolishly,” she said to me one evening, when, instead of meeting Mr. Morris at our house, he had sent her a note of apology filled with excuses for his unavoidable business engagements, “I entered into this secret engagement so thoughtlessly—and Heaven only knows when or where it is to end.” We were alone. Aunt Mary, not being very well, had retired immediately after tea. Meta threw herself on the lounge, and drawing me to her, rested her head on my shoulder, and sobbed like a child. I caressed her silently, and my tears mingled with hers. Frank and open, Meta could not have a thought or shade of feeling without disclosing it to me. Her concealment of her engagement from her family, had arisen from delicacy, shyness, and the strong dash of romance in her character; then the artificial natures of her aunt and sister prevented all confidence with them, but with those she loved and depended on, she was as confiding and candid as an innocent child. “Charles says I have grown suspicious and fretful,” she at last said, as her sobs became more quieted. “I know I am altered; our separation in the summer was so very painful to me as to make me restless in temper. I confess I am tired of concealment, and when I told him so, the other evening, I was mortified by the cold manner with which he received it. He said it had been my own proposition, that some time would necessarily elapse before we could be married, and that the same objections existed as at first to an open announcement of our engagement. I felt wounded to the quick, and when I passionately accused him of no longer loving me, he very coolly left me to become more reasonable, as he said, and came here into the library and talked to you and your aunt. I have not seen him since; no engagement should have kept him from me; he knows how wretchedly I must feel, even though I may be unreasonable, and cherish groundless suspicions; and yet his note this evening is so calm and unmoved.” I soothed and encouraged her in the best way I could, but I thought within myself it was a cloudy affair. Again and again they met, but their meetings failed to produce happiness for Meta. He was cold—she suspicious. “He never alludes to a past misunderstanding,” she said, one evening to me after he had left, for he no longer staid the whole evening as formerly, nor did he come so often. “When he knows we have parted miserably, and we meet again, instead of soothing and assuring me, he commences talking on some indifferent subject, as if nothing had occurred. If he has changed, why not candidly avow it? So I told him this evening, and he told me my absurd jealousy made me both selfish and unkind. Oh, Enna! I am miserable, this state of affairs cannot last much longer, it will kill me. Do tell me, Enna, am I unjust in my accusations—is not Charles altered?”