Not long after Claiborne's departure, Bryant went upon a trading expedition, and for the first time left his keys with his wife, with the charge, that if a certain person called for some money, to let him have it out of his desk. While there for that purpose, her curiosity--I might say her suspicions--led her to examine the contents of the drawers, when in one, oh! blackest deed on memory's record! oh! most base and villainous deception! She met with a large packet of letters addressed to herself and Claiborne's father. Pale and motionless she stood, struck with amazement and horror. She saw herself the _wife_ of a vile hypocrite--the author of all her own misery and sorrow--the demon of the desolation and blight of happiness she had witnessed in an excellent family--the injurer and almost _murderer_ of the noble and generous Charles Claiborne. The idea froze the blood in her very heart. She read Claiborne's repeated declarations of increasing affection in every letter--the irksomeness of all his pursuits uncheered by her smiles,--his kind but touching reproofs for not writing--his marked effort in every line to please and delight--they were all unsealed and had been read by this cool-blooded villain. The blackness of the deed was aggravated by the deliberation with which it was done, and that too, while he perceived the anxiety and painful suspense of the dearest friends of one, whom he was thus so deeply injuring. The poor Eliza had borne up under all but this; and now that she saw her _husband_ a fiend at heart--her anguish was insupportable--her bosom was racked with every conflicting emotion--her eyes swam--her bewildered brain whirled, and she sank to the floor. How long she lay in this state she knew not; but when she recovered, she replaced every thing carefully, and retired. Ten thousand agonizing reflections inflicted their torments upon her mind. She soon resolved upon her course. Erring on the better side, she determined to endure every suffering, to preserve her _husband_ from ignominy, but to cherish her sorrows, which she hoped would very soon wear out the little of life that remained-- But life's strange principle will often lie, Deepest in those who long the most to die.