Of all the ills of our brief but troublous pilgrimage, there is none like this--the terrible agony of suspense! As its fearful ramifications develop themselves, the horror of one thought, which has made our blood curdle, is lost under the sting of its successor, and each consecutive reflection inflicts a more excruciating pang. A host of melancholy images are embraced by one thought. Hopes and fears and anxieties, the very antagonists of each other, seem to be banded together, and to unite in an inroad on the prostrate heart. Each particular idea involves a crowd of apprehensions; and the troubled spirit, endued with an unnatural sensibility, which catches at the veriest shadow, is overwhelmed with bewilderment and distraction. Sir Edgar had endured this appalling mental conflict for nearly a week. The seventh day found him quite prostrate, and almost reckless. All hope had gone; and he looked forward to night, not as to a season of rest, but as to another stage, which should bring him nearer his end. When night should arrive, he would lie down, nervous and wretched, with the same prospect as on the previous night--a morrow of apprehension, solicitude, and hopelessness. While he was thus pondering on his situation, he heard his cell-door pushed open; and mechanically--for he really acted without motive--he looked up. As his eye fell on one of the two persons who appeared at the aperture, its sight grew dim, and he felt his head whirl again. But, though he was stirred so deeply, he did not give way to his emotion, and he recovered himself in an instant. Starting up, he caught the person referred to in his arms. It was Evaline!--sweet, noble, excellent Evaline! After all her affliction--after all her terrible fears, which had wrung her heart to the quick, and pursued her like her shadow--she was in his embrace at last! Again she hung round his neck; again she leaned on his bosom; and, thus embraced, was fatherless no more. Neither of them spoke. Their hearts were too full, and, in the overflow of joy, feeling only could reveal itself. And what tongue, however eloquent, could have told their emotion so forcibly as their silence? what could manifest their affection so distinctly and clearly as its own voiceless self? Sir Edgar was the first to speak. After a time, seeing that the gaoler had left them to themselves, his reserve vanished, and he gave his feelings utterance. “My own darling Eve!” he said, passionately: “I knew thou wouldst not desert me!” Evaline looked up; and though her eyes, as they met his, brimmed with tears, a smile played upon her lips, that rendered him a sufficient answer. “I know--I know,” said her father, in an agitated voice, yet smiling, “thou wouldst give thy life first.” Evaline could not speak, but she raised herself up in his arms, and kissed him. “Bless thee, my sweet!” said Sir Edgar, in a tremulous tone: “all the saints bless thee!”