He went through with the morning meal, with his customary, reflective leisure. And Catherine watched the hand of the clock, as it traveled on towards eight. She was sick with apprehension. She could not speak to him there, for the servants were in attendance. At last he arose, left the table, and went out to give some final directions concerning his baggage, and the horses and servants he was to take with him. And then he went up stairs and entered his study. It was just eight o’clock, and she had two invaluable hours left yet. As if life and death hung upon their issue, she resolved come what might, to use them in a final effort for a reconciliation. Pale and trembling in every limb, she left the table, and went up stairs, slowly, holding by the balustrades from weakness. When she reached the study door she found it ajar, and through it she saw him sitting at his writing-table—not busy, as she had feared and expected to find him, but doing absolutely nothing—with his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried in the palms of his hands—in the attitude and expression of the deepest sorrow and despair. That one glimpse of his suffering face, sufficed to drive every fear but that of anxious affection from her heart—“It is because he thinks me unworthy. I must not leave him to think so longer. Be strong, coward heart,” she said, to herself, and then she went in and stood beside his chair, resting her hand, for support, upon the table, trembling with nervous weakness, and blushing with the bashfulness she could not but feel in making this advance, and altogether, in his suspicious eyes, looking very much like a conscious culprit. She stood, unable to utter one word, until he lifted up his head, and seeing her, demanded coldly— “What is your pleasure, Mrs. Clifton?” She attempted to speak, but a mute sob was all that ensued. With a piercing sarcasm, he asked— “Can I serve you in any manner this morning, madam?” With a gesture of deprecation and entreaty, she answered— “Yes! yes! I wish to be put upon my trial! Archer!—Major Clifton! you withdrew your favor from me so suddenly! You never told me why! Oh! tell me, before you go, how I have been so wretched as to lose your esteem—and put me upon my defence.” He frowned, darkly, as with both pain and anger, and replied— “I have had occasion twice before to remind you, Mrs. Clifton, that this is a prohibited subject of conversation between us.” She clasped her hands, in the earnestness of supplication, exclaiming—