'As he never once wrote, after he had left the country, I concluded that he was dead. Yesterday, however, a letter from him was put into my hand, which announced his return, and appointed a private interview. I went. He had a clergyman in waiting to join our hands. I prayed, entreated, wept--all in vain. 'I BECAME HIS WIFE. 'O William, pity, but do not blame me. If you are a man of honour and of feeling, never shew this letter, or tell its contents to one living soul. Do not even speak to myself on the subject of it. 'You see I pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the name that I now bear. 'Adieu, dear William: adieu for ever.' We then returned to the sitting-room, and found William there. While we were conversing, I took an opportunity to slip the letter, unperceived, into his hand, and to bid him read it in some other place. He retired with it, and we continued talking. But in about half an hour he hurried into the room, with an agitated countenance; stopped opposite to Mary, and looked at her earnestly. 'William!' cried she, 'William! For shame then, don't frighten one so.' 'No, Mary,' said he, 'I scorn to frighten you, or injure you either. I believe I am above that. But no wonder my last look at you should be frightful. There is your true-lover's knot--there is your hair--there are your letters. So now, Mary, good-bye, and may you be for ever happy, is what I pray Providence, from the bottom of my broken heart!' With these words, and a piteous glance of anguish, he rushed from the room. Mary remained motionless a moment; then half rose, sat down, rose again; and grew pale and red by turns. ''Tis so--so laughable,' said she at length, while her quivering lip refused the attempted smile. 'All my presents returned too. Sure--my heavens!--Sure he cannot want to break off with me? Well, I have as good a spirit as he, I believe. The base man; the cruel, cruel man!' and she burst into a passion of tears. I tried to sooth her, but the more I said, the more she wept. She was sure, she said, she was quite sure that he wanted to leave her; and then she sobbed so piteously, that I was on the point of undeceiving her; when, fortunately, we heard her father returning, and she ran into her own room. He asked about her; I told him that she was not well;--the old excuse of a fretting heroine; so the good man went to her, and with some difficulty gained admittance. They have remained together ever since. How delicious will be the happy denouement of this pathetic episode, this dear novellette; and how sweetly will it read in my memoirs! Adieu. LETTER XXIV