"Why do you speak so?" asked the poor girl. "Why do you speak so lightly when I am so wretched?"
"Because I do not mean that you shall remain wretched," was the answer. "Hold up your head, now, Mary—may I not call you Mary, dear Mary! Hold up your head, like a brave girl, and listen to me."
Her frightened companion made an effort to do so, and she went on:
"You believe that I have been right in what I have said, do you not? And that I am a true friend?"
"Yes, indeed I do!"
"Then obey me now!" she continued, rapidly shaping into words the thoughts that had been for a few moments assuming consistency in her brain. "Do precisely as I tell you, nothing less and nothing more, and this marriage will break itself, without one word from you."
"Oh, how can that be possible?" asked the trembler.
"Sit down in that chair for a few minutes, and don't mind me!" and in a moment she had transferred her burden to the chair. In another she had flung open one of the end shutters of the room, drawn a small table towards the window, opened upon it her portable writing-desk (an article of use without which she never travelled), and was hastily scribbling, though with a hand that shook a little at its own boldness—the following note:—
West Falls, Sunday, July 6th (noon).
Col. Egbert Crawford:—