exclaiming, "Oh, Marianne! why am I not beloved like Elvira ?"
"And are you certain that she is beloved?"
"Certain!" reiterated Rosabella, wringing her hands; "Alas! alas! would I were not so certain; but can I doubt the evidence of my senses? This day—this very day! I saw Father Morris put a letter into her hands, which was inclosed in that addressed to Sir Ambrose. I saw a blush of conscious pleasure glow upon her cheeks as she perused it, and I could have stabbed her to the heart,—yes, and exulted in her dying agonies—triumphed in her groans. Oh, Marianne! is it not extraordinary that one so great, so noble, and so exalted as Edmund, can love such a poor, weak, feeble being as Elvira? But she loves him not; at least not as he should be loved. She is incapable of it."
"I wonder Father Morris gave her the letter."
"He could not help it, Marianne. It fell from its inclosure when Sir Ambrose tore it open; but she saw it fall. I even saw her eye
