You have forgiven me, Julia; my mother has assured me of her forgiveness; and what have I more to wish?  My heart is much lightened by these kind assurances; they will be a great support to me in the dreadful hour which awaits me.”  “What mean you, Eliza?” said I.  “I fear some dreadful purpose labors in your mind.”  “O, no,” she replied; “you may be assured your fear is groundless.  I know not what I say; my brain is on fire; I am all confusion.  Leave me, Julia; when I have had a little rest, I shall be composed.  These letters have almost distracted me; but they are written, and I am comparatively easy.”  “I will not leave you, Eliza,” said I, “unless you will go directly to bed, and endeavor to rest.”  “I will,” said she, “and the sooner the better.”  I tenderly embraced her, and retired, though not to bed.  About an hour after, I returned to her chamber, and opening the door very softly, found her apparently asleep.  I acquainted Mrs. Wharton with her situation, which was a great consolation to us both, and encouraged us to go to bed:  having suffered much in my mind, and being much fatigued, I soon fell asleep; but the rattling of a carriage, which appeared to stop a little distance from the house, awoke me.  I listened a moment, and heard the door turn slowly on its hinges.  I sprang from my bed, and reached the window just in time to see a female handed into a chaise by a man who hastily followed her, and drove furiously away.  I at once concluded they could be no other than Eliza and Major Sanford.  Under this impression I made no delay, but ran immediately to her chamber.  A candle was burning on the table, but Eliza was not there.  I thought it best to acquaint her mamma with the melancholy discovery, and, stepping to her apartment for the purpose, found her rising.  She had heard me walk, and was anxious to know the cause.  “What is the matter, Julia?” said she; “what is the matter?” “Dear madam,” said I, “arm yourself with fortitude.”  “What new occurrence demands it?” rejoined she.  “Eliza has left us.”  “Left us!  What mean you?” “She has just gone; I saw her handed into a chaise, which instantly disappeared.”

At this intelligence she gave a shriek, and fell back on her bed.  I alarmed the family, and by their assistance soon recovered her.  She desired me to inform her of every particular relative to her elopement, which I did, and then delivered her the letter which Eliza had left for her.  “I suspect,” said she, as she took it; “I have long suspected what I dared not believe.  The anguish of my mind has been known only to myself and my God.”  I could not answer her, and therefore withdrew.  When I had read Eliza’s letter to me, and wept over the sad fall, and, as I fear, the total loss of this once amiable and accomplished girl, I returned to Mrs. Wharton.  She was sitting in her easy chair, and still held the fatal letter in her hand.  When I entered, she fixed her streaming eyes upon me, and exclaimed, “O Julia, this is more than