It was now full time, he felt, for him to step forward, and, for the sake of Eunice, renew his attentions and claim her hand. He therefore sat down immediately, and wrote and dispatched the letter which Eunice so unexpectedly received. Anxiously did he await a reply. Two days passed, yet none came. On the third day, this brief answer was received: “DEAR ALBERT--Through all the trials and changes that I have been called to meet, I have remained the same; and to know that your heart is still true, fills me with inexpressible delight. Time is doing its work, but all is not yet finished. I have still a sacred duty to perform, that no considerations, personal to myself, can make me forego. Still, Albert, dear Albert! let me repeat--Have faith in time. I cannot say more at present. Write to me again. Write to me often. Soon, very soon, I trust we shall meet and speak face to face as of old. “EUNICE” “Still have faith in time”, murmured Albertson, with some bitterness, as he finished reading this letter. “Have I not had faith? Have I not waited long and patiently?” But, after reading it over again, his feelings changed, and admiration for the self-sacrificing spirit of the noble-hearted girl filled his bosom. “Yes, yes, I will still wait. If so true as a daughter, what will she not be as a wife? That sacred duty is some devotion of herself for the well-being of her parents. I must learn what it is, and prevent it.” CHAPTER XV. WEAKNESS AND STRENGTH. When Mr. Townsend came home from his store, after learning that a total wreck of his affairs had taken place, his mind was fully made up to shrink away like a coward from his duties and responsibilities in life, and not only leave his family helpless, friendless, and destitute, but entail upon them the keenest affliction. His hope in life was gone. He felt that there was an unseen, but all-potent and malignant power, whose anger he had by some means invoked; and, to fly from its persecutions, he resolved to end his earthly existence. Not long after Eunice went up to her chamber, he came in and retired to his own room, firm in the purpose he had conceived. The more he thought about it, the more desirable did it seem as a means of relief. It would end at once and forever these hopeless struggles, and free him from burdens and responsibilities he was unable to bear. The death pangs would be but brief, and nothing in comparison to the anguish of mind he was enduring. Of what was beyond the dark bourn of time, he did not permit himself to think. It seemed to him as if there were nothing beyond, except what was dreamy and indistinct--as if he would sink into a lethargic calm, which would be heaven when compared with his present wild state of suffering. “Has father come home yet?” suddenly fell upon his ears in the low, sweet voice of Eunice, speaking close by the door of his chamber.