you will never either see or hear from him again."

Charlotte took up the letter, and Mademoiselle continued--

"He is most probably going to America; and if ever you should hear any
account of him, it may possibly be that he is killed; and though he
loved you ever so fervently, though his last breath should be spent in
a prayer for your happiness, it can be nothing to you: you can feel
nothing for the fate of the man, whose letters you will not open, and
whose sufferings you will not alleviate, by permitting him to think you
would remember him when absent, and pray for his safety."

Charlotte still held the letter in her hand: her heart swelled at the
conclusion of Mademoiselle's speech, and a tear dropped upon the wafer
that closed it.

"The wafer is not dry yet," said she, "and sure there can be no great
harm--" She hesitated. La Rue was silent. "I may read it, Mademoiselle,
and return it afterwards."

"Certainly," replied Mademoiselle.

"At any rate I am determined not to answer it," continued Charlotte, as
she opened the letter.

Here let me stop to make one remark, and trust me my very heart aches
while I write it; but certain I am, that when once a woman has stifled
the sense of shame in her own bosom, when once she has lost sight of the
basis on which reputation, honour, every thing that should be dear to
the female heart, rests, she grows hardened in guilt, and will spare