As Emily approached the arbor, whither in truth she had directed her steps, its faded vegetation and chilling aspect, so different from its verdure and luxuriance when she last saw it, came over her heart as a symbol of her own blighted prospects and deadened affections.  The recollection of Denbigh’s conduct on that spot, of his general benevolence and assiduity to please, being forcibly recalled to her mind at the instant, forgetful of her object in visiting the arbor, Emily yielded to her sensibilities, and sank on the seat weeping as if her heart would break.

She had not time to dry her eyes, and to collect her scattered thoughts, before Mrs. Wilson entered the arbor.  Eyeing her niece for a moment with a sternness unusual for the one to adopt or the other to receive, she said,

“It is a solemn obligation we owe our religion and ourselves, to endeavor to suppress such passions as are incompatible with our duties; and there is no weakness greater than blindly adhering to the wrong, when we are convinced of our error.  It is as fatal to good morals as it is unjust to ourselves to persevere, from selfish motives, in believing those innocent whom evidence has convicted as guilty.  Many a weak woman has sealed her own misery by such wilful obstinacy, aided by the unpardonable vanity of believing herself able to control a man that the laws of God could not restrain.”

“Oh, dear madam, speak not so unkindly to me,” sobbed the weeping girl; “I—­I am guilty of no such weakness, I assure you:”  and looking up with an air of profound resignation and piety, she continued:  “Here, on this spot, where he saved my life, I was about to offer up my prayers for his conviction of the error of his ways, and for the pardon of his too—­too heavy transgressions.”

Mrs. Wilson, softened almost to tears herself, viewed her for a moment with a mixture of delight, and continued in a milder tone,—­

“I believe you, my dear.  I am certain, although you may have loved Denbigh much, that you love your Maker and his ordinances more; and I have no apprehensions that, were he a disengaged man, and you alone in the world—­unsupported by anything but your sense of duty—­you would ever so far forget yourself as to become his wife But does not your religion, does not your own usefulness in society, require you wholly to free your heart from the power of a man who has so unworthily usurped a dominion over it?”

To this Emily replied, in a hardly audible voice, “Certainly—­and I pray constantly for it.”

“It is well, my love,” said the aunt, soothingly; “you cannot fail with such means, and your own exertions, finally to prevail over your own worst enemies, your passions.  The task our sex has to sustain is, at the best, an arduous one; but so much the greater is our credit if we do it well.”

“Oh! how is an unguided girl ever to judge aright, if,—­” cried Emily, clasping her hands and speaking with great energy, and she would have said, “one like Denbigh in appearance, be so vile!” Shame, however, kept her silent.