Mr. Smith turned pale; but there was a deep depression in Zulima’s voice and manner, that re-assured him the interview could not have been a happy one, to leave that cheek so hueless, the eyes so heavy—he was not yet too late. “I saw him,” said Zulima, “but he did not know it; to-day, within another hour, I shall know why he has treated me thus; tell me how I can get a message conveyed to him.” “I will convey it; I will urge your cause.” “Only tell him I am here; I want no one to plead for me with _him_. Only do that, and I will thank you much.” “I will do that, and more,” said Smith, bowing. What influence was it that kept Mr. Clark so wakeful on the night when Zulima, his young wife, slept beneath the same roof with himself? He knew nothing of her presence—he felt not the bitter tears that almost blistered her pale cheek, as she tried to stop thinking of him—the sobs that shook her frame till the bed trembled under it—none of them reached his ear. It was not any remembrance of the lovely young being who had hung upon his arm, and sat beside him in that flower-lit portico but a short time before: her beauty had pleased him, her conversation had wiled away a little of that time which was often spent in bitter thoughts, since he had begun to receive the letters of Ross and to yield credence to the reports regularly sent him of the estrangement and faithlessness of his young wife. She had fled now—fled from his friend’s roof, and come northward no doubt to obtain greater freedom, and escape the vigilance of those he had placed about her. Thus ran the last letter that Clark had received from his friend. Clark read the letter over, after he returned home that night, for something seemed constantly whispering of Zulima; he could not drive her from his mind. It seemed to him as if some great mistake had arisen, as if he had not read the letters of his friend aright. No; when he perused this letter again, it was clearly written; nothing ambiguous was there, nothing hinted; his wife had ceased to love him; she had fled. Still there was something at his heart that would not be thus appeased; the mysterious presence of this young creature seemed to haunt his room, haunt the innermost chambers of his heart; he thought of the letter she had written him, and which he had burned while under the terrible influence of his friend’s epistle. He began to regret now, to wish that he had at least seen the contents of that letter; still his friend was dispassionate, just—why should this calm report be doubted? a report evidently wrung from him by a strong sense of duty. Mr. Clark slept little that night; his better angel was abroad. Zulima, too, was weeping beneath the same roof; he knew it not, but still he could not sleep! In the morning Smith came to the chamber where Mr. Clark was sitting at breakfast. His face was sad; he seemed ill at ease. “I thought it best to come and bring this news to you first; it might save you from great embarrassment.”