I made my way to the dressing-table; I remembered to have seen her purse upon it when I went up to mend my dress the evening before. It was gone, but in its place I found a little note with my name upon it.
I ran with it to Gabriel; I could not read it alone. “A letter,” was all I said, and we read it in the bay-window, standing side by side.
“Emilia, dearest, you have given me so much, and now I have sinned against you. You forgave me with your lips just now; forgive me with your heart when I am dead. You must not blame me for what I do, you know I was always very weak; I cannot look you in the eyes again, nor him. God will forgive me, I think. Good-bye. Be happy,—neither you nor he must grieve for me; it is a poor little life that I throw away, and all the good I ever knew came from you or him. Be happy—Emilia, my old Emilia, good-bye.”
She was found towards evening, many miles from Miltonhoe, on the banks of the Avon. Gabriel and I had been up and down the land all day, following her traces.
When we heard that she was found, we parted.
THE END.
AN AUTHOR’S LOVE.
Being the Unpublished Letters of