desire, as she betrays the most nervous susceptibility at encountering the gaze of a stranger. When we had traversed the environs, she opened her eyes, and said,—

"Now I can breathe more freely. I seem to have escaped from an atmosphere of humiliation and disgrace, where every eye mocked, and every tongue defamed me. Oh, Mary! you know not, and you never can know, the agonising consciousness of being the subject of general and disgraceful animadversion; of seeing caricatures portraying vice in its most hideous forms, stamped with your likeness; bon mots and equivoques the most contemptuous coupled with your outraged name; while the good deplore, and the wicked triumph, in your presumed criminality. All this I have felt and writhed under, until my tortured imagination has conjured the belief that the overwhelming sense of shame which was preying

on my soul, had fixed its burning brand on my brow. How How-how I longed to be transported

to some distant region, where my name had never been heard my disgrace never been related; where I could again meet the glance of human beings without being crimsoned by the blush of shame. I was proud, Mary, too proud; how has that pride been humbled! Will not every modest woman accuse me of bringing dishonour on my sex? Will not every immodest one cite me as a companion in vice? Think of a trial!"

"But your innocence will be proved, dearest."

Admitting this to be the result; through what a fearful ordeal does the virtue of a woman pass, that virtue which should never be ques

tioned, when it is subjected to the odious, the defiling publicity of a judicial investigation! No! the burning ploughshare, over which

the female suspected of want of chastity was condemned to walk barefooted, as a mean of detecting the justice of the imputation, was a merciful penalty compared to that of the searing-iron of consuming shame which the notoriety of a trial inflicts on a sensitive mind. Then, to watch the struggles, to conceal grief and wounded honour, of those who were once proud of you; to know that their love and pity for one deemed impure, expose their own reputations to censure—oh! all this once felt, never can be erased from the memory, and poisons every thought, destroys every earthly hope! From such misery there is but one refuge- the grave; but one hope-the mercy of that God, who can distinguish between error and guilt, and can pardon her whom men condemn."

It is in vain, my dearest husband, that I endeavour to lead her to take a less sombre

view of her position. Her womanly pride, and, above all, the extreme modesty peculiar to her character, have received wounds too deep, too deadly, ever to be healed; and, however her innocence may be proved, hers is not a nature to drag on a protracted life of fancied humiliation, or to submit to the capricious kindness of some, and the still cherished malignant doubts of others.

Could the young and fair of her own sex, who, unthinking of crime, recklessly expose themselves to its suspicion, behold this lovely and unhappy creature sinking into a premature grave as a refuge from shame, how would they tremble at even the approach of levity, or the semblance of impropriety of manner; and how carefully would they preserve that decorum which should ever be the outward and visible sign of the purity within!

The love of Augusta for her father and

mother, demonstrated in a thousand ways, is the most touching sight I ever beheld. It seems as if the cords that unite their hearts

are drawn more tightly now that they are so soon to be rent asunder for ever. But even this tender affection makes her more alive to the sense of the wound inflicted on their

peace by the stain affixed to her honour.

Yes; it is one of the peculiarities of the heart of woman, that the blow which most afflicts her, is that which must wound the hearts of those dear to her.

In compliance with the wishes of Augusta, we have chosen a different route to the direct one to Vernon Hall; consequently, we are unknown at the inns where we stop; and this privacy is a great relief to her feelings.

"What a blessing to die at home!" she often murmurs; "with no prating London physicians to describe to their fashionable and