what he had lost. “But one night more remains to me,” said he; “to-morrow, or never.” His violent agony did not escape the eye of his uncle, but he ascribed it to fatigue, and excused himself for detaining him from his needful rest, on account of his own departure, which he could not delay beyond the following day. “Yet grieve not, William,” said the old man as he retired to rest; “grieve not for this short hour thus spent, you will only sleep the sounder for it.” William shivered, for to his ear these words conveyed a deeper meaning. There was a dark foreboding in his heart, that the execution of his plan would for ever banish the quiet of sleep from his soul.
But day dawned—passed—and evening descended. “It must be now or never,” thought William, “for to-morrow will be the day of trial.” The females had been busied in preparations for the wedding and the reception of their distinguished guest. Anne embraced William when he returned, and, for the first time, saluted him with the dear name of son. The tender joy of a young and happy bride glittered in the sweet eyes of Catherine. The supper-table was covered with flowers, good food, and large bottles of long-hoarded wine from the stores of Bertram. “Children,” said the old man, “this is our own festival; let us, therefore,
