was conjectured that the unfortunate suicide had swallowed the contents before he took the fatal plunge. It was, indeed, a melancholy story of profligate life; for, it was added, that an imposing person and fascinating address had been turned to a bad account; and that many a family had reason to curse the day on which the accomplished _roué_, had been introduced to their acquaintance. I could not tell wherefore, but as I read this miserable narrative, my blood chilled, my lips grew white, and I could scarcely reach its close. And yet, why should it affect me? Was it not an every-day event? the regular advance of crime--beginning with improvidence, and ending in ignominy and death. But still the story of the suicide seemed to haunt my memory; and sleeping or waking, the unknown criminal constantly was present. It was the third evening after. My father had accepted a neighbour’s invitation; and I, preferring solitude to a scene of rustic festivity, for which a heavy heart was badly suited, was left alone at home. As usual, I was sitting in the window of my own chamber,--that window from which I had watched a lover’s coming, and witnessed a brother’s departure; and lost in painful reveries, allowed hours to slip unnoticed. The moon had gone down; the night was unusually dark; and the stillness was unbroken. I heard the dry leaves rustle; was it the wind that moved them? I looked suspiciously abroad; a human figure was standing underneath, and a voice so hoarse and hollow that I could not recognise its tones, softly pronounced my name. I flung the casement open, and demanded, “who was there?” “I, Julia; your lover, your husband,” and Seymour in another minute held me nearly fainting in his arms. “And was my voice forgotten, Julia?” he murmured, half reproachfully. “Well, I cannot wonder at it, for I have been ill, and am hoarse as a raven. How cold the night is!” “Cold! Why, Edward, your hand is burning. Stay, I will bring lights, and get you some refreshment.” “No, no,” he answered, hastily; “no lights, love; some curious eye might observe them. But I am thirsty; I could drink, drink deeply. Bring me some wine, Julia; no supper, love--I cannot eat, I am weary, very weary.” And was this Seymour? that hollow voice the same, to whose soft pleadings I had yielded a young heart, and renounced the sacred allegiance which a father claims and merits? That fevered hand, too,--was it the ardent glow which warms the husband when he hastens to the home of her he loves? Why this strange fancy for darkness and concealment? The coming and the conduct of Seymour were equally mysterious, and I dreaded to ask my husband the cause of this ominous and unexpected return. But I was not left long in suspense,--Seymour half drained the flask;--and habits so temperate before, appeared to have undergone a rapid change; for he drank like a man whose shattered nerves require some powerful stimulus. “Julia,” he said, “you did not expect this visit?”