“Is this true?” he said. “Did she part from that man at once?” “Indeed she did, and has not seen him since.” “Henry, did she love him?—answer me that.” Henry hesitated—“They seemed to live comfortably together, whenever I have seen them.” “Madness! distraction! Did they love each other?” “I saw but little of them, for I was always in the office,” replied Henry evasively. “I must see her—I must see her herself; I must know the truth!” He resumed the letter, but hastily passing over that part which spoke of resignation, “There is no use in preaching resignation to me! She might as well attempt to chain the ocean!” He glanced at the signature. “Oh, merciful Heaven! that I could forget all that has gone before; that I could annihilate the preceding words, and preserve nothing but the last, ‘Your faithful wife, Ellen Cresford!’” He gazed in rapturous tenderness upon the words; his tears flowed fast; he kissed the name again and again. Then hastily turning to Henry, he added, “I must see her once again, and then—God knows what will become of me!” He rushed out of the house, and before many minutes had elapsed was on his road to Captain Wareham’s residence. CHAPTER XII. Shall then, in earnest truth, My careful eyes observe her? Shall I consume my youth, And short my time to serve her? Shall I beyond my strength, Let passion’s torments prove me, To hear her say at length “Away,—I cannot love thee!” GEORGE WITHER.—A.D. 1588. Ellen was one morning quietly seated in the back drawing-room which had been given up to her and her children; the elder ones were employed, George in reading to his mother, and Caroline in working, seated on a stool at her feet, while the little Agnes was playing on the floor. Ellen heard a knock at the door. Every sound made her start. She heard a loud voice in the passage! A voice! His voice! Yes it was his voice whom she had so long believed in the grave, uttering in loud and stern accents, “Show me to Mrs. Cresford,—I must instantly see her,” and he darted by the servant up the stairs. “Not into the front room, sir,” the servant called out; “there is company in the front room! the back room, sir, if you please.” Cresford burst open the door, and stood before her, pale and haggard. She did not faint, she did not scream: she had risen from her seat, and she stood transfixed! She was as beautiful as ever. Sorrow could but dim her brilliancy,—the finely chiselled features, the marble brow, the angelic expression, the feminine dignity, were all there. Cresford gazed in agonized admiration.