must see how attentive he is in going with you from place to place. I can also see that he struggles much to appear cheerful, for your sake, and that your altered manners, and your bad health, affect him deeply."
Isabella might have truly said—"The change began with him; he has led me on till I resigned myself to that demon which, like the evil spirits of old, seek unto themselves others more wicked, to enter the heart and dwell there;" but she sought for no excuse, and started with horror from the idea of doing, saying, or even thinking, any thing which could bring obloquy upon her husband. She recalled many times of late, "when in the bitterness of her feelings she had repelled with coldness those attentions long withdrawn, but now, from pity, again conceded; and she felt that if she had indeed lost his love, it would be well to accept the substitute that remained; "for whatever might be his feelings, she had not ceased to love:" "there was no sacrifice she could make for his happiness too great; no proof of tenderness she could display too endearing."
"If your sensibility is alive to his merits—if you still love so fondly—there is the greater necessity for you to retain, or renew, his love. You must call on your fortitude and your patience, to endure that which he inflicts—not willingly, it is certain—but from some terrible necessity, some painful mystery, of which we cannot judge. You think you could
