me many a pang of sorrow and self-reproach, and we were married in the old country church near my aunt's residence. The ceremony was over, and I was leaving the church, hanging on my husband's arm, in all the bashful yet happy flutter of a young bride, when a dark figure arose from one of the seats, stepped into the aisle, and confronted us. It was he, the deceived, the dreaded one! He did not speak, but, with folded arms, stood motionless, looking fixedly at me. Never before had I seen him wear such an expression. No fire flashed from his eyes; they wore rather a cold, stony look—a look expressive of sullen, immovable hate, compared to which the most furious glance of rage had been mild and merciful. A smile, too—the first I had ever seen there—was on his lip. But, oh, Mary! such a smile!.
"I hastened past him with tottering steps. The carriage stood outside the church door. 'Tell them to drive on quickly,’ I said, as my husband took his seat by my side. The postilions cracked their whips, and we were whirled away. 'Faster!' I cried, 'faster!’ And gates, trees, and hedges, flew past us like the wind. But still I cried 'Faster! faster!' until I sank, half fainting, into my husband’s arms.
"We reached the port whence we were to sail, and went on board directly. I had told Edward what had been the cause of my agitation and terror: he made light of it, and endeavoured to laugh it off; but, notwithstanding his attempts at concealment, I saw that hie was not unmoved at what had occurred. Perhaps he, too, felt some self-reproach at having induced me to break my plighted word.
"We sailed immediately, and arrived safely and speedily at Naples, where we took a house, in one of the most pleasant parts of the city. My husband entered upon his duties, and as months passed by without our hearing anything of the baron, we almost ceased to think of him. We were very, very happy together, and every hour and every minute our love seemed to increase. Edward's time was not much occupied, and scarcely did a day pass but we rode together amongst the lovely scenery in the neighbourhood, or sailed over the clear blue waters of the bay. Twelve happy months, the brightest of my life, had passed, when you, my dear Mary, were born; and soon after, your father fell ill—I believe not very dangerously, though, to my anxious fears, it seemed so at the time. Day and night I was at his side. I poured out his medicine for him, I read to him, I soothed his pain, I watched every faint sign of returning health. Until then, Mary, I had never fully known how dearly I loved him. The very grief and anxiety his sickness had caused me at first, was almost repaid by the pleasure of tending his wants and of knowing that I was necessary to him, and by the thankful happiness I felt at seeing him regain his health and strength, and at walking forth with him from the close sick room into the fresh breeze and the warm sun. We never prize a thing so much as when we have feared that we were about to lose it. Your birth too, Mary, was a new tie, which seemed to bind still more closely, if that were possible, the affections of us who had before been all in all to each other.
"One evening—it was the first time after your father's illness—we set out on one of our old pleasant excursions on the water. Never had I seen the pure, cloudless of Italy look so beautiful as it did then. We extend our cruise further than we had intended, and the moon was shining
