Supper was brought in, and we endeavored to prevail on Eliza to eat, but in vain.  She sat down in compliance with our united importunities; but neither of us tasted food.  It was removed untouched.  For a while, Mrs. Wharton and I gazed in silent anguish upon the spectacle of woe before us.  At length Eliza rose to retire.  “Julia,” said she, “you will call at my chamber as you pass to your own?” I assented.  She then approached her mamma, fell upon her knees before her, and clasping her hand, said, in broken accents, “O madam, can you forgive a wretch, who has forfeited your love, your kindness, and your compassion?” “Surely, Eliza,” said she, “you are not that being!  No, it is impossible!  But however great your transgression, be assured of my forgiveness, my compassion, and my continued love.”  Saying this, she threw her arms about her daughter’s neck, and affectionately kissed her.  Eliza struggled from her embrace, and looking at her with wild despair, exclaimed, “This is too much!  O, this unmerited goodness is more than I can bear!” She then rushed precipitately out of the room, and left us overwhelmed in sympathy and astonishment.

When Mrs. Wharton had recovered herself a little, she observed that Eliza’s brain was evidently disordered.  “Nothing else,” continued she, “could impel her to act in this extraordinary manner.”  At first she was resolved to follow her; but I dissuaded her from it, alleging that, as she had desired me to come into her chamber, I thought it better for me to go alone.  She acquiesced, but said she should not think of going to bed, but would, however, retire to her chamber, and seek consolation there.  I bade her good night, and went up to Eliza, who took me by the hand, and led me to the toilet, upon which she laid the two enclosed letters, the one to her mamma, and the other to me.  “These,” said she, “contain what I had not resolution to express.  Promise me, Julia, that they shall not be opened till to-morrow morning.”  “I will,” said I.  “I have thought and wept,” continued she, “till I have almost exhausted my strength and my reason.  I would now obtain a little respite, that I may prepare my mind for the account I am one day to give at a higher tribunal than that of earthly friends.  For this purpose, what I have written, and what I shall yet say to you, must close the account between you and me.”  “I have certainly no balance against you,” said I.  “In my breast you are fully acquitted.  Your penitential tears have obliterated your guilt and blotted out your errors with your Julia.  Henceforth, be they all forgotten.  Live, and be happy.”  “Talk not,” said she, “of life; it would be a vain hope, though I cherished it myself.

  ’That I must die, it is my only comfort;
  Death is the privilege of human nature,
  And life without it were not worth the taking. 
  Thither the poor, the prisoner, and the mourner
  Fly for relief, and lay their burdens down.’