thoughts like these, and happily, ignorant of the new cause which existed to warrant suspicion (and which had drawn from her husband's eyes tears that fell like scalding lead from his burning brain), she slowly paced her dressing-room (the door of which was unclosed, because unnoticed), and had exclaimed, as she had done many a time before—"if he would but tell me!—if he would but tell me!" when Glentworth stood before her.
Isabella was afraid of her husband; her very love caused her to fear from its excess; and Mary's late advice had so clearly shown her the error into which her jealousy had led her, that for a moment she stood before him as one convicted of guilt; yet she felt as if now, or never, must she seek for an explanation necessary to her very existence, and before he had time either for comment or inquiry, she exclaimed—
"Yes, I must, I will be told, why you are thus ill and wretched, flying from me to solitude as a comfort, and associating with me as a duty? Why have you a trouble too deep for me to partake, who would thankfully share with you the meanest hut we have beheld in all our travels, and look round on the wide world saying, 'envy me; I am Glentworth's wife!'"
"My dear Belle!—my noble-hearted girl!"
"Girl! There is my misfortune! You fancy me a child, incapable of comprehending your difficulties and sharing your troubles. You are mistaken; for
