I can not exactly remember how long this lasted, or when it was that I first detected in Astræa the return of the nervousness which had in some degree abated upon our arrival in town. It could not, however, have been more than two or three months after we had taken this house, that I observed a striking change in her. Haggard lines seemed all of a sudden to have been plowed round her eyes and cheeks, and her look had become wild and unsettled. I never saw any body so completely shattered in so short a time, and the transition from comparative tranquillity to a state of excessive nervous excitement was so alarming, that I thought there must have been some cause for it beyond that of mere physical illness. I questioned her upon it, but always got the same unsatisfactory answers, ending by entreating of me not to notice her, but to let her go on in her own way. I can not recall what there was about her manner--some strangeness in the way she looked at me or spoke to me--that aroused the most painful suspicions. I confess I did not know what to suspect; but there was a mental reservation of some kind, and I was resolved to ascertain what it was. I had the utmost confidence in Astræa; love with her was the most sacred of all obligations; and she loved me sincerely--at least, she had loved me enthusiastically in the beginning. What revolutions had since taken place in her heart, I could not answer for. She had passed through a chaos in the interval that might have destroyed the capacity of loving. That there was something more in her thoughts than she had revealed, I felt sure; and the first shape my suspicions took--natural enough in our circumstances, although not the more just on that account--was a shape of jealousy. My alarm immediately flew to the defense of my pride, or, as Forrester in his cauterizing way would have called it, my selfishness; I resolved to observe her closely, and I did so some time without being able to glean any thing further. At last the secret of her wasting frame and pallid face was suddenly divulged. One evening, toward the close of the summer, she remained out longer and later than usual. Her walk, sometimes alone and sometimes with me, was through the more secluded parts of the park. On this occasion, the twilight was setting in, and she had not returned. With a dark and sulky apprehension brooding in my mind, I resolved to go out in search of her. We had not been confidential with each other of late; the old dreariness had come back upon us, embittered with a captiousness and acerbity which extracted all the sweets from our intercourse. A new element had found its way between us: we had thoughts which we concealed from each other: my distrust--her secret, whatever it was. This was a great evil; it filled every hour of the day with lurking jealousies on both sides, which one word would have dispelled forever.