I have been to church with Laurence--for the last time, as I think. We knelt together, and took the sacrament. His face was grave, but peaceful. When we came home, we sat in our beautiful little rose-garden: he, looking so content--even happy; so tender over me--so full of hope for the future. How should this be, if he had on his soul that awful sin? All seemed a delusion of my own creating: I doubted even the evidence of my own senses. I longed to throw myself on his bosom, and tell him all. But then, from some inexplicable cause, the olden cloud came over him; I read in his face, or thought I read, the torturing remorse which at once repelled me from him, and yet drew me again, with a compassion that was almost stronger than love. I thought I would try to say, in some passing way, words that, should I die, might afterward comfort him, by telling him how his misery had wrung my heart, and how I did not scorn him, not even for his sin. "Laurence," I said, very softly, "I wish that you and I had known one another all our lives--from the time we were little children." "Oh! that we had! then I had been a better and a happier man, my Adelaide!" was his answer. "We will not talk of that. Please God, we may live a long and worthy life together; but if not--" He looked at me with fear. "What is that you say? Adelaide, you are not going to die? you, whom I love, whom I have made happy, _you_ have no cause to die." Oh, agony! he thought of the one who _had_ cause--to whose shame and misery death was better than life. Poor wretch! she, too, might have loved him. Down, wife's jealousy! down, woman's pride! It was long, long ago. She is dead; and he--Oh! my husband! may God forgive me according as I pardon you! I said to him once more, putting my arm round his neck, leaning so that he could only hear, not see me. "Laurence, if I should die, remember how happy we have been, and how dearly we have loved one another. Think of nothing sad or painful; think only that, living or dying, I loved you as I have loved none else in the world. And so, whatever chances, be content." He seemed afraid to speak more, lest I should be agitated; but as he kissed me, I felt on my cheek tears--tears that my own eyes, long sealed by misery, had no power to shed. * * * I have done all I wished to do. I have set my house in order. Now, whichever way God wills the event, I am prepared. Life is not to me what it once was: yet, for Laurence's sake, and for one besides--Ah! now I dimly guess what that poor mother felt, who, dying, left her child to the mercy of the bitter world. But, heaven's will be done. I shall write here no more--perhaps forever. * * * It is all past and gone. I have been a mother--alas! _have been_; but I never knew it. I woke out of a long blank dream--a delirium of many weeks--to find the blessing had come, and been taken away. ONE only giveth--_ONE_ only taketh. Amen!