`If I tire, it will be of living in the world with you; not of living without your mockery of love. When you tire of your sinful ways, and show yourself truly repentant, I will forgive you--and, perhaps, try to love you again, though that will be hard indeed.'

`Humph!--and meantime, you will go and talk me over to Mrs. Hargrave, and write long letters to aunt Maxwell to complain of the wicked wretch you have married?'

`I shall complain to no one. Hitherto, I have struggled hard to hide your vices from every eye, and invest you with virtues you never possessed--but now you must look to yourself.'

I left him--muttering bad language to himself, and went up stairs.

`You are poorly Ma'am,' said Rachel, surveying me with deep anxiety.

`It is too true, Rachel!' said I, answering her sad looks rather than her words.

`I knew it--or I wouldn't have mentioned such a thing.'

`But don't you trouble yourself about it,' said I, kissing her pale, time-wasted cheek-- `I can bear it--better than you imagine.'

`Yes, you were always for "bearing. "--But if I was you I wouldn't bear it--I'd give way to it, and cry right hard!--and I'd talk too, I just would--I'd let him know what it was to--

`I have talked,' said I: `I've said enough.'

`Then I'd cry,' persisted she. `I wouldn't look so white and so calm, and burst my heart with keeping it in!'

`I have cried,' said I, smiling in spite of my misery; `and I am calm now, really, so don't discompose me again, nurse: let us say no more about it--and don't, mention it to the servants.--There, you may go now. Good night;--and don't disturb your rest for me: I shall sleep well--if I can.'

Notwithstanding this resolution, I found my bed so intolerable that, before two o'clock, I rose, and, lighting my candle by the rushlight that was still burning, I got my desk and sat down in my dressing-gown to recount the events of the past evening. It was better to be so occupied than to be lying in bed torturing my brain with recollections of the far past and anticipations of the dreadful future. I have found relief in describing the very circumstances that have destroyed my peace, as well as the little trivial details attendant upon their discovery. No sleep I could have got this night would have done so much towards composing my mind, and preparing me to meet the trials of the day--I fancy so, at least--and yet, when I cease writing, I find my head aches terribly; and when I look into the glass I am startled at my haggard, worn appearance.

Rachel has been to dress me, and says I have had a sad night of it she can see. Milicent has just looked in to ask me how I was. I told her I was better, but to excuse my appearance admitted I had had a restless night.--I wish this day were over! I shudder at the thoughts of going down to breakfast--how shall I encounter them all?--Yet let me remember it is not I that am guilty: I have no cause to fear; and if they scorn me as the victim of their guilt, I can pity their folly and despise their scorn.