She accused herself of not having sufficiently valued the one last morning she had passed with him. She remembered a thousand things she meant to say—a thousand things she ought to have said. She thought she had been cold, she thought she had been unkind, and yet she reproached herself for having allowed him to take that one farewell kiss; for she felt and knew she was not his wife. She could not deceive herself into a momentary belief that the letter was an imposture. She knew that her lawful husband was alive, and that every feeling of her soul was therefore criminal. Still, though she scarcely indulged a hope of ever being re-united to Algernon, she had not the courage to declare the truth. She wished, if possible, to preserve her reputation, and her child’s position in the world. She now had leisure to reflect upon the line of conduct it behoved her to adopt, and she came to the conclusion, that, provided she received no further communication from Mr. Cresford, and that there seemed no fear of open exposure, the only mode of preserving her fair name, and her virtue at the same time, was to induce Mr. Hamilton to consent to an amicable separation on the score of incompatibility of temper. This was her best hope! How dreadful the other alternative! to be claimed by the indignant Cresford, to be held up to the eyes of the world as a base culprit, guilty of the crime of bigamy! It was almost too degrading to contemplate. Some days had now elapsed; she had every morning received the letters with a sickening dread which almost paralysed her. With fear and horror she had hastily turned over the exterior of every letter, and, with inexpressible relief, she had found none that bore the dreaded foreign post-mark. Each morning brought a long epistle from Algernon, written in the spirit of the highest, purest, most devoted affection. These were some balm to her heart. These were treasured up and perused over and over again. But she was an altered creature—all around wondered at the change. The children found that mamma could only kiss them, and weep over them, and they became thoughtful and subdued in her presence. The poor people wondered their bounteous lady no longer came among them. She could not do so. She dreaded the eyes of her fellow-creatures—their very blessings were painful to her—she felt as if she had obtained them under false pretences. All that had given her pleasure in this lovely place, this delightful country, now only filled her with regret, when she thought that the next day might find her an exile from this Paradise. Every walk, every tree, every view, every spot she visited, reminded her of him whom she no longer ventured to call husband, and with whom she had no hope of ever seeing them again.