“I am better, Susan,” replied Lady Montressor, rising and suffering her attendant to bathe her face and hands, and comb her hair and arrange her dress. When these toilet services were rendered, the maid rang again and was answered by the waiter, who made his appearance with a tray of refreshments for Lady Montressor. Susan placed a sofa-table beside the couch upon which her ladyship reclined, arranged the viands upon it, and pressed her mistress to partake of them. Lady Montressor forced herself to swallow a piece of bread and a few mouthfuls of coffee. Then pushing the salver from her, she said— “There! take these things away, my girl, and go and get your supper, while I write two letters that must be left behind.” Susan did as she was ordered. And Lady Montressor when left alone, went and sat down at her writing-table, and wrote—first, a short note of adieu, which she folded and directed to Mr. Oldfield. Then she commenced a farewell letter to Lord Montressor. She poured out her whole heart and soul freely upon that paper!—page after page, sheet after sheet, was filled as her pen flew along the lines; her undying love, her terrible temptation, her agonizing struggle, her final, despairing renunciation—all, all, was poured forth with the living eloquence of a loving, despairing, impassioned heart! At last she paused, exhausted, and laid down her pen. Had she finished? Had she poured forth all her burning brain thought?—all her bleeding heart felt? Ah, no!—not a millionth part! And yet she had said too much! too much! “Alas! how inconsistent I am! how weak,” she said; “I practice self-denial at one point, and fall into self indulgence at another! Why, to write _thus_, _to him_, is almost as wrong as to remain and live with him! For, oh! if I should send him this letter, showing him how much I love and suffer and despair, he will never resign me, never free himself and forget me and be happy! No, no, he would search for me over the world, and not finding me, would sit down in his ‘chamber of desolation’ to mourn me forever! That must not be! He must not know the anguish of this bosom. I must drink this cup of renunciation to the dregs, denying my heart even the sorrowful consolation of writing to him;—save, perhaps, a few lines of friendly leave-taking.” She tore up her first and impassioned letter, and then she took a sheet of paper and wrote a short note of adieu, which she folded and directed. A few minutes after this her maid returned to the room, and announced that her few preparations were complete, and that it was near eleven o’clock. “Are _you_ ready, Susan?” “Yes, Madam,” replied the girl, tying on her bonnet. “Is the house quiet?” “Our portion of it is, my lady.” “Very well, then. Now give me my cottage bonnet and shawl.—Thank you. Now my thick vail and my gloves.—That is right. Have you the packet?” “Yes, Madam.” “We are ready, then, I believe?” “Yes, my lady,” replied Susan; but still she lingered.