tie—the consciousness that even he who loves you, honours your virtues, surveys your person and accomplishments with pride, yet shrinks from owning the name of that innocent creature who gave him a heart as pure as it was fond—oh, these are agonies!
"Dear Isabella, it will not be long ere my fortune reaches your husband's hands; if, in the meantime, you can seize a moment, in which to tell him my sad story, and soften his heart towards me, do it, I beseech you! I know not whether he resembles his faulty but kind father, or his stern uncle; but I trust it is—indeed I am sure it is—the former, for I am sure you love him warmly, entirely. Seize, then, some melting moment, and plead on my behalf—a single line from him, in a letter from you, would be a sunbeam, which would revive hope in my sick and solitary hours, and shed comfort even on the grave of your unhappy, but most affectionate sister,
"Sophia Osmond."
The conclusion of this long letter unlocked the very sluices of pity and sorrow in the breast of Isabella, and for some minutes she resigned herself to tears; but feeling afraid of its effects on her husband, she stepped hastily to her dressing-room, and laid the last sheet down beside him, and then retired. She could not, however, do so without steal-
