Till last Thursday night she slept in the same bed with me, when she excused herself by saying she was restless, and should disturb my repose.  I yielded to her humor of taking a different apartment, little suspecting the real cause.  She frequently walked out, and though I sometimes followed, I very seldom found her.  Two or three times, when I happened to be awake, I heard her go down stairs; and, on inquiry in the morning, she told me that she was very thirsty, and went down for water.  I observed a degree of hesitancy in her answers for which I could not account.  But last night the dreadful mystery was developed.  A little before day, I heard the front door open with great caution.  I sprang from my bed, and, running to the window, saw by the light of the moon a man going from the house.  Soon after, I perceived a footstep upon the stairs, which carefully approached, and entered Eliza’s chamber.

Judge of my astonishment, my surprise, my feelings upon this occasion.  I doubted not but Major Sanford was the person I had seen; and the discovery of Eliza’s guilt in this infamous intrigue almost deprived me of thought and recollection.  My blood thrilled with horror at this sacrifice of virtue.  After a while I recovered myself, and put on my clothes.  But what to do I knew not—­whether to go directly to her chamber, and let her know that she was detected, or to wait another opportunity.

I resolved on the first.  The day had now dawned.  I tapped at her door, and she bade me come in.  She was sitting in an easy chair by the side of her bed.  As I entered she withdrew her handkerchief from her face, and, looking earnestly at me, said, “What procures me the favor of a visit at this early hour, Miss Granby?” “I was disturbed,” said I, “and wished not to return to my bed.  But what breaks your rest, and calls you up so unseasonably, Eliza?” “Remorse and despair,” answered she, weeping.  “After what I have witnessed, this morning,” rejoined I, “I cannot wonder at it.  Was it not Major Sanford whom I saw go from the house some time ago?” She was silent, but tears flowed abundantly.  “It is too late,” continued I, “to deny or evade.  Answer my question sincerely; for, believe me, Eliza, it is not malice, but concern for you, which prompts it.”  “I will answer you, Julia,” said she.  “You have discovered a secret which harrows up my very soul—­a secret which I wished you to know, but could not exert resolution to reveal.  Yes, it was Major Sanford—­the man who has robbed me of my peace, who has triumphed in my destruction, and who will cause my sun to set at noon.”

“I shudder,” said I, “at your confession!  Wretched, deluded girl!  Is this a return for your parent’s love and assiduous care; for your friends’ solicitude and premonitory advice?  You are ruined, you say!  You have sacrificed your virtue to an abandoned, despicable profligate!  And you live to acknowledge and bear your infamy!” “I do,” said she; “but not long