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granted he would learn from the letter which she had written the day, nay, the probable hour, of her reaching home, and doubted not his coming out on the road to meet the carriage. For the last mile, her head was often put out of the window on some pretence or other, and she eagerly examined every one she saw at a distance, in each person expecting to recognise Charles. But when arrived at home, she found him absent, she felt offended, as well as distressed.
"Suspense," thought she, "would have been less intolerable than this dreadful certainty. How has my fancy pictured him retracing out favourite walks, musing the hours away on the same seats where we have often sat; poring over the same books we read together; dwelling on each favourite passage, and associating my idea with every tender image pictured by the poet. And he has passed his days and his nights at a tavern!"
Will fond woman be ever deceived-will she forever believe that man loves as woman loves? Suffer then, she must.
Apprized by his mother of Mary's and William's return, Charles made his appearance in the morning, but not until the time when he knew Mr. Murray would have left the house. There was some embarrassment in his manner, which was increased by the distant and reserved air Mary assumed. He would have embraced her as brothers are entitled to embrace a sister, but she repelled his advances, and turning away her face, burst into tears. This was unfortunate, it betrayed the whole extent of her weakness. Could she have preserved her assumed reserve, and asserted a proper dignity, the restraint she had hitherto imposed on him might have been continued. But poor Mary had, as we have said, passed a sleepless, wretched night: and her delicate frame could not support the resolutions her mind had formed.
Charles saw, and seized on his advantage. He caught her in his arms, he pressed her to his bosom, and wiped away her tears. "My Mary, my sister!" he exclaimed, "whence this displeasure?"
He knew not that Mary was informed of his derelictions, and therefore spoke with the confiding tenderness he had been accustomed to. She could only weep. He led her out into the piazza, and by degrees she became composed. It was not in Mary's nature to reproach one she loved for suspected unkindness.
Her wounded pride and sensibility were soothed by his humble and flattering manner. She could only resolve to forgive and forget. Henry and Meta were playing in the yard-on seeing their mother they ran to her to thank her again and again for the pretty toys she had brought them; and when she returned to the parlour, they followed in order to display their new treasures to uncle Charles.
Mary drew her work-table by her, and took out her work, and Charles, as usual, sat down beside her, and took up a book, finding he could not continue his discourse, and very much put out by the presence of the children. He commanded himself, however, sufficiently to examine and admire the gifts of their dear mamma, and she, pleased with seeing them pleased, encouraged their rather noisy demonstrations of delight. Charles felt he could not bear this scene much longer, and wishing to be alone with Mary, he told them he was going to read aloud, and they had best go and play.
"We do not want to leave dear mamma," said Meta.
"You shall not read," cried Henry, snatching the book and throwing it away, "we want to play with mamma."
Charles coloured violently, raised his arm, but checked himself in time; he bit his lip, started up and wakled the floor. Mary saw with pain these indications of angry passion, and thought it best to avoid any further irritation, so she bade the children go play, as she wished to hear their uncle Charles read. She ordered Henry to pick up and restore the book. The child would not obey her; she angrily repeated her command, and he reluctantly and sullenly obeyed. She again bade them go to play in the yard.
"It is very cold, mamma," said Meta.
"Yes, a storm is coming," said Henry, "but no matter, Meta, mamma don't want us." So saying, he dragged the unwilling Meta from the room.
Mary's bosom was stung by self-reproach.
"I ought not to have yielded;" thought she. "I ought not to have sent those dear little creatures away."
But, alas, how often did she now do what she ought not to do-and how easily did Charles beguile her of her sense of error. Both felt some dissatisfaction with the recent scene, and to get rid of such unpleasant sensations, he took the book, and commenced reading, while Mary resumed her work. The tale was a deeply interesting one;-all the passionate emotions of unhallowed love were eloquently pourtrayed, and so adorned by the charmes of genius as to disguise their native deformity, and to awaken interest in every bosom. "To err is human-to forgive divine," thought Mary. "I, alas! am but human."
So totally and deeply was she absorbed in this story, that she marked not the gathering clouds-she heard not the rushing of the winds, or the pelting of the rain, until she was startled from her all-engrossing attention, by the abrupt opening of the door-she looked up, her husband entered, with a countenance dark as the storm, leading in the children completely drenched with rain.
"What is the meaning of this?" exclaimed he, in a loud and angry voice. "Why were these children sent out in such weather, instead of being alowed to stay by you?"
Mary looked thunderstruck. Conscience-struck she certainly was. She tremblingly replied, "she had not sent them into the rain-until that moment she did not even know that there was a storm."
"Not know there was a storm?" cried her husband. "How could you be employed to be insensible of such a storm?" and he looked almost furiously at Charles.
"I really, William, see nothing wonderful in the circumstance; we were deeply interested in the book, and he was reading," replied Mary,