That letter was the last she ever received from her lover. After
enduring the most torturing suspense for eighteen months, and writing
frequently to demand the cause of his unnatural silence, Elinor gave
herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Mr. Hurdlestone endeavored to
soothe her fears, and win her to the belief that his brother's letters
must have miscarried, through the negligence of private hands, to whom
they might have been entrusted. But when these suggestions failed in
arousing her from the stupor of grief into which she had fallen, he
offered the most tender consolations which could be administered to a
wounded mind--an appearance of heartfelt sympathy in its sufferings.

While musing one morning over the cause of Algernon's silence, the
Squire's groom approached the open window at which she was seated, and
placed a letter in her hands; it was edged and sealed with black; and
Elinor hastily broke the seal, and opened it. Her eye glanced, hurriedly
over the first few words. She uttered a loud cry; and sank down,
weeping, at her mother's feet.

Mrs. Wildegrave lifted her to the sofa, and taking the letter from her
cold and nerveless grasp, read its contents. They were written by Mark
Hurdlestone.

Oak Hall, June 16, ----

"My Dear Miss Wildegrave:

"It is with the utmost reluctance that I take up my pen to
communicate tidings which, I well know, will occasion you great
distress. This morning's post brought me the mournful intelligence
of my brother Algernon's death, which melancholy event took place