At the well-known voice, she started, and turned towards him; but in a moment averted her face, and rose as pale as ashes. Then drawing some letters and baubles from her bosom, she threw them into his lap, and began gently disarranging her hair, all the time looking sideways at him, with an air of pretty dignity. 'Come,' said she, taking my hand, and leading me out of the arbour. 'Well, was not that glorious? Now I shall die content.' 'Yes,' said I, 'after having first killed your William. Have I not explained all about the letter; and how can you now treat him so cruelly?' 'The letter,' said she. 'Ay, true, the letter. Let me consider a moment. He thought it was mine, do you say?' 'He did indeed, Mary; and yet you will not be friends with him.' 'But you see he won't follow me,' said she. 'He would have followed me once. Is he following me?' 'He cannot,' answered I. 'The poor young man is lying on the ground, and sobbing ready to break his heart.' Mary stopped. 'Shall I call him?' said I. 'Why now,' said she, 'how can I prevent you?' 'William!' cried I. 'Mary calls you.' William came flying towards her. At the sound of his steps she turned, stretched forth her hands, uttered a long and piercing cry;--and they were locked in each other's arms. But the poor girl, quite overpowered by the sudden change, fell back insensible; while William, kissing her, and weeping over her, bore her into the house, and laid her on a bed. It was so long before she shewed any symptoms of animation, that we began to feel serious alarm; and William ran to the village for an apothecary. By degrees she came to herself, and appeared somewhat more composed; but still wandering. At last, with her hand clasped in her lover's, she fell asleep; and then, as our presence could be no farther useful, we took leave of the venerable peasant; who, generous with recent hope, freely gave me his forgiveness and his blessing. In my first transports of anguish at this scene, I disclosed to Stuart, what I had all day determined, but dreaded to tell--the situation of my father in the madhouse. At the horrid account, the good young man turned pale, but said not a word. I saw that I was undone, and I burst into tears. 'Be comforted, my dear girl,' said he, laying his hand on mine. 'You have long been acting under the delusion of a dreadful dream, but this confession, and these tears, are, I trust, the prognostics of a total renunciation of error. So now let us hasten to your father and release him. He shall forgive you; past follies shall be forgotten, past pleasures renewed; you shall return to your real home, and Cherry Wilkinson shall again be the daughter of an honest squire.' 'Mr. Stuart,' said I, 'as to my past follies, I know of none but two;--Mary's and my father's matters. And as to that father, he may not be what you suppose him. I fancy, Sir, there are such things as men who begin life with plain names, and end it with the most Italian in the world.'