"There," she said, raising her head with a start, but without answering my question--"there, you need not read those papers, Richard. It needs no further consideration. I am yours, willingly, readily--without a doubt. Give me the letters. I will throw them away; and, with them, I will try to cast off all memory of what they contain. But you must promise me one thing, Richard. If, in after times, when I am your wife, you should see some shade of sadness come upon me, a slight and temporary gloom, as if a cloud were passing across a summer's sky, you must not for a moment think that Bessy regrets what she has done--that there is even a shade of repentance, or, as I once called it, remorse, for you have opened my eyes. I see what is right to be done, and I will do it, both for your happiness and for my own. A memory, however, of what these pages contain may, perhaps, from time to time, come back and sadden me, whether I will or not. But it is well that it should be so--that there should be some little thing to take away from the very sweetness of the cup. Were it not for that, I should be too, too happy. Life would be too bright, and I should hardly know how to bear it. Give me the papers, Richard. We will think of them no more." "May I not read them?" I asked. "Yes, if you will," she answered; "though I see no use in it. They may make _you_ sad too; and my course is now completely decided, If you still wish it, this hand is yours, and nothing but death shall take it from you. It can serve no good purpose to read those sad words." I drew her very close to me, and kissed her cheek, saying,-- "It may serve a very good purpose, Bessy. If I am not mistaken, it will enable me, I do believe, to remove from your mind an error, which, as you have said, might grow into a sad memory, might overshadow our mutual happiness as we stood together at the altar, and often come like a dark cloud over the brightness of our future fate." "Indeed!" she exclaimed, with a doubting and bewildered look; "I do not see how that can be, Richard." "May I read, Bessy?" I again asked. "Assuredly," she answered; "do, if you wish it. But there is only one which it is needful for you to read, and that is not very long. It is here." And turning the papers over rapidly, she pointed to one, which had the post-mark, I think, 'Yorktown.' She then put her hand over her eyes, as if resolved not to see the letters any more; and, still leaning her head on my shoulder, remained silent while I read. The letter ran as follows; for having it by me as I write, I may as well copy it as it stands: "MY DEAR MADAM,--Mr. Winthorp brought me your letter of inquiry yesterday, and also one from Mr. Hubbard. But it was late at night before I received them; and though I notified the sheriff and the magistrates immediately, it was considered too late to do anything that night. Alas, that I should say it! it was too late altogether.