"Write soon, and let us know that you are well and happy; a line from you will cheer my drooping heart.
"Yours, in the sincerity of love,
"Margaretta Moncton.
"Moncton Park, July 22, 18—."
I read this letter over several times, until the characters became misty, and I could no longer form them into words. A thousand times I pressed it to my lips, and vowed eternal fidelity to that dear writer. Yet what a mournful tale it told! The love but half-concealed, was apparent in every line. I felt bitterly, that I was the cause of her dejection; that hopeless affection for me was undermining her health.
I would write to her instantly—would tell her all. Alas! my hand, unnerved by long illness, could no longer guide the pen—and how could I employ the hand of another? I cursed my unlucky accident, and the unworthy cause of it: and in order to divert my thoughts from this melancholy subject, I eagerly tore open Sir Alexander's letter.
The paper fell from my grasp, I was not able to read.
Mrs. Hepburn appeared like a good angel, followed by honest Dan, bearing candles, and the most refreshing of all viands to an invalid—a delicious cup of fragrant tea, the very smell of which was reviving; and whilst deliberately sipping the contents of my second cup, I requested Mrs. Hepburn, as a great favour, to read to me Sir Alexander's letter.
"Perhaps it may contain family secrets?" said she, with an inquiring look, whilst her hand rested rather tenaciously upon the closely written sheets.
"After the confidence which we have mutually reposed in each other, my dear madam, I can have no secret to conceal. You are acquainted with my private history, and I flatter myself, that neither you, nor your amiable niece, are indifferent to my future welfare."