her. But this state of pacific and resigned feeling was not of long duration. Those communications which had so long afforded her support, solace, and delight, began to decrease. The accustomed period for receiving these letters so dear to her, often passed, to leave upon her mind only the traces of disappointment. The next day came, and another succeeded, but neither proved more fortunate. Expectation, still the companion of her bosom, prevented her from giving way to absolute repining; to-morrow, she would think,—to-morrow my suspense and fears may have a cessation; but when the morrow came, it was only to cloud her brow with still more alarming perplexity.
Her patience at length exhausted, she wrote to Philimore, beseeching to know the cause of his silence,—expressing also the most affectionate concern with regard to his health; begging of him, if he valued her peace, to send her a few lines, which might prove satisfactory, and ease her of the distress under which she laboured. Perhaps, in the eloquent flow of her feelings, however tender and endearing, there might have been something of decision, some energy of expression, that might have piqued his self-love, and conveyed a reproach she fain had sought to avoid.
From whatever cause it sprang, the reply of Philimore, far from relieving, served only to probe her heart and produce still deeper agony. Why had he written, if, in so doing, he was to add only to her
