upon a mind naturally so gentle and innocent as hers, cast by its solemn
influence a deep gloom over the brief history of their loves. She laid
the pen down, and covering her face with both hands, burst into a flood
of tears.

"Why is it," she said to herself, "that a conviction as if of guilt
mingles itself with my affection for him; and that snatches of pain
and melancholy darken my mind, when I join in our morning and evening
worship? I fear, I fear, that God's grace and protection have been
withdrawn from me ever since I deceived my father. But these errors,"
she proceeded, "are my own, and not Henry's, and why should he suffer
pain and distress because I have been uncandid to others?"

Upon this slender argument she proceeded to write the following reply,
but still with an undercurrent of something like remorse stealing
through a mind that felt with incredible delicacy the slightest
deviation from what was right, yet possessed not the necessary firmness
to resist what was wrong.

"I know that it is indelicate and very improper--yes, and sinful in me
to write to you--and I would not do so, but that I cannot bear to think
that you should suffer pain. Why should you be distressed, when you know
that my affection for you will never change?--will, alas! I should add,
can never change. Dear Henry, is it not sufficient for our happiness
that our love is mutual? It ought at least to be so; and it would be
so, provided we kept its character unstained by any deviation from moral
feeling or duty in the sight of God. You must not continue to write to
me, for I shall not, and I can not persist in a course of deliberate
insincerity to those who love me with so much affection. I will,
however, see you this day, two hours earlier than the time appointed in