“They are his children,” she exclaimed, “and he will take them from me. I know he will—whichever way I turn fresh horrors surround me!” The poor little things, astonished at their reception, stood aghast. Mr. Hamilton hastily bade them leave their mother, told them she was not well, and hurried them out of the room. “Ellen, dearest Ellen,” he said, and approached her. He took her hand, when she started away. “You must not touch me, Algernon! It is a crime. You say yourself I am his wife, and he is coming home. Algernon,” she said, in a clear, low, sepulchral voice, speaking very slowly, “I cannot be forced to live with him again. No law can compel me to do that. Tell me the law,—let me know the truth.” “I cannot say exactly; we will inquire. Compose yourself; let us do nothing rashly. Perhaps he may never return,—perhaps he may not live to return; we do not know.” “But I am not your wife?” “This letter may still be a forgery.” “No, no, it is too true! and I am not your wife,” she repeated, with the accent of utter hopelessness. He stood in silence; he could not say she was. He endured agony equal to her’s, except that he did not feel the guilt and the remorse which were added to all her other sufferings. They remained silent till she could endure it no longer. “Algernon, no law can be so cruel as to separate us: it is impossible. After all, we were lawfully married in a church: no one forbade the banns,—no one answered the awful adjuration, ‘Let him now speak, or ever after hold his peace.’ Yes, we must be lawfully married. We are, are we not? Say so, my own Algernon, my husband?” and she wound herself round him, and looked up in his face with all the winning tenderness she could put into those melting eyes. “I am your wife, your wedded wife, am I not, dearest?” and she tried to smile, a sweet, sad, heart-rending smile. This was too much for poor Hamilton. He took her in his arms, he pressed her to his bosom. “You are my own Ellen, my life, my love, the joy of my heart; without you life would be intolerable.” “I am your wife, dearest; say so,—in pity say so!” “Yes, yes, you are! In spite of ordinances, human and divine, you are; you shall be my wife!” “No,” she said, slowly shaking her head—“no! if you speak so, then I am not your wife.” She gradually relaxed her hold, her arms dropped by her side, and she sank into a chair. He looked on her for a few moments with a fixed gaze of despair, then striking his forehead he rushed out of the room, darted down the stairs, out of the house, and plunged into the most retired part of the park, where he wildly paced the ground, beating his bosom, and almost dashing his head against the trees. When Ellen saw him hurry from her presence she gave one shriek. “He is gone!” she cried; “gone—I have lost him for ever!”