Such was the important portion of the letter. In an instant, as

I read it, I saw, with the instinct of jealousy, the annihilation

of all my hopes of happiness. All my dreams were in the dust--all

my fancies scattered--my schemes and temples overthrown. Bitter

was the pang I felt on reading this letter. It said more--much

more--in the very language of solicitation which the good old father

professed to believe unnecessary. He poured forth the language of

a father's grief and entreaty. I felt for the venerable man--the

true friend--in spite of my own miserable apprehensions. I felt

for him, but what could I do? What would he have me do? I had no

house in which to receive his son. He would lodge, perhaps, for a

time, in the community. It could not be supposed that he would remain

long. The letter of the father spoke only of a brief visit. Our

neighborhood had no repute, as a place of resort, for consumptive

patients. I consoled myself with the reflection that William Edgerton

could, on no pretence, linger more than a week or two among us. I

will treat him kindly--give him the freedom of the house while he

remains. A dying man, if so he be, must have reached a due sense of

his situation, and will not be likely to trespass upon the rights

of another. His passions must be subdued by this time. Ah! but will

not his condition be more likely to inspire sympathy?

The fiend of the blind heart prompted that last suggestion. It

was the only one that I remembered. When I returned home that day

to dinner, I mentioned, as if casually, the letter I had received,

and the contents. My eye narrowly watched that of my wife while

I spoke. Hers sunk beneath my glance Her cheeks were suddenly

flushed--then, as suddenly, grew pale, and I observed, that, though

she appeared to eat, but few morsels of food were carried into her

mouth that day. She soon left the table, and, pleading headache

declined joining me in our usual evening rambles.




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