This latter personage had a little burly figure, with head carried very erect upon a short, thick neck, that looked still shorter from the long, flowing beard, thickly sprinkled with gray.

He did not look like a “wretch,” nor yet, as if he had sufficient energy or capacity for any deep scheme of villainy.  Still she felt sure this was the individual whose shortcomings and misdeeds generally, she had heard descanted upon.

Clemence laughed, as she wondered how it was possible for any one to be so carried away by their feelings, as to be jealous of a submissive looking little man like this.  Yet, having fallen in love with him once herself, and forgetting that youth had flown, and that the husband of her youth was only a plodding, middle-aged family man, it was not so very remarkable that a naturally jealous woman, like Mrs. Charles Burton, should imagine that her especial property was coveted by all those of her own sex who were not similarly blessed.

“Poor woman!” thought Clemence, “she is a victim to her own unhappy temper.”

She forgot the circumstance altogether, and it was only recalled to mind when the village postmaster handed her a letter, which read thus: 

     MISS CLEMENCE GRAYSTONE: 

Miss—­On Thursday, the 23d instant, you were seen by certain parties, on a secluded avenue of this village, in earnest conversation with two gentlemen,—­one of whom was Mr. Charles Burton.  Report gives him the character of a perfidious and unfaithful husband.  How then does it look for a young lady, whose name is now the subject of idle gossip, to indiscreetly hazard her reputation still more by such intercourse.  There could be but one object in this, which was, doubtless, revenge.  But, let me ask, what will it profit you, to add still greater pangs to that already suffered by one who mourns the loss of her husband’s affections?  Know that, through all, she will cling to him, for she loves him still, and is a devoted wife and mother.  Nothing of coldness or neglect on his part can change her feelings, or turn her from the path of duty.  As a friend and a Christian, the writer of this would calmly advise you to abandon all efforts either to see or communicate in any manner with the gentleman, upon any subject whatever; not even in the presence of a third party, as there is said to be an official who watches over the interests of a wronged and heart-broken wife.  WATCHER.

“Really, this is assuming a tragical character,” said Mrs. Hardyng, to whom Clemence went at once for advice. “‘The plot thickens,’ as the story-books say.  Why, child, take courage; you will be a heroine yet, and I shall be thrown completely in the shade—­left disconsolate and forlorn.”

“Don’t jest,” said Clemence, shuddering.  “You can’t think, Ulrica, how all this pains me.  I never dreamed of such a result of my efforts, but rather supposed, if we tried to do ‘what their hand found to do,’ patiently, they would be borne out in their undertakings.  I am innocent of premeditated wrong to any one.”