“It is needless for me to rehearse the perfidious arts by which he insinuated himself into my affections and gained my confidence.  Suffice it to say, he effected his purpose.  But not long did I continue in the delusive dream of sensual gratification.  I soon awoke to a most poignant sense of his baseness, and of my own crime and misery.  I would have fled from him; I would have renounced him forever, and by a life of sincere humility and repentance endeavored to make my peace with Heaven, and to obliterate, by the rectitude of my future conduct, the guilt I had incurred; but I found it too late.  My circumstances called for attention; and I had no one to participate my cares, to witness my distress, and to alleviate my sorrows, but him.  I could not therefore prevail on myself wholly to renounce his society.  At times I have admitted his visits, always meeting him in the garden, or grove adjoining; till, of late, the weather and my ill health induced me to comply with his solicitations, and receive him into the parlor.

“Not long, however, shall I be subject to these embarrassments.  Grief has undermined my constitution.  My health has fallen a sacrifice to a disordered mind.  But I regret not its departure.  I have not a single wish to live.  Nothing which the world affords can restore my former serenity and happiness.

“The little innocent I bear will quickly disclose its mother’s shame.  God Almighty grant it may not live as a monument of my guilt, and a partaker of the infamy and sorrow, which is all I have to bequeath it.  Should it be continued in life, it will never know the tenderness of a parent; and, perhaps, want and disgrace may be its wretched portion.  The greatest consolation I can have will be to carry it with me to a state of eternal rest; which, vile as I am, I hope to obtain, through the infinite mercy of Heaven, as revealed in the gospel of Christ.  I must see Major Sanford again.  It is necessary to converse further with him in order to carry my plan of operation into execution.”

“What is this plan of operation, Eliza?” said I.  “I am on the rack of anxiety for your safety.”  “Be patient,” continued she, “and you shall soon be informed.  To-morrow I shall write my dreadful story to my mother.  She will be acquainted with my future intentions; and you shall know, at the same time, the destination of your lost friend.”  “I hope,” said I, “that you have formed no resolution against your own life.”  “God forbid,” rejoined she.  “My breath is in his hands; let him do what seemeth good in his sight!  Keep my secret one day longer, and I will never more impose so painful a silence upon you.”

By this time we had reached home.  She drank tea with composure, and soon retired to rest.  Mrs. Wharton eagerly inquired whether I had found out the cause of Eliza’s melancholy.  “I have urged her,” said I, “on the subject; but she alleges that she has particular reasons for present concealment.  She has, notwithstanding, promised to let me know the day after to-morrow.”  “O,” said she, “I shall not rest till the period arrives.”  “Dear, good woman,” said I to myself, “I fear you will never rest afterwards.”