“In fact, my child,” continued her aunt, “our natures are guilty of the grossest inconsistencies.  The vilest wretch has generally some property or which he values himself, and the most perfect are too often frail on some tender point.  Long and tried friendships are those only which can be trusted, and these oftentimes fail.”

Emily looked at her aunt in surprise at hearing her utter such unusual sentiments; for Mrs. Wilson, at the same time she had, by divine assistance, deeply impressed her niece with the frailty of her nature, had withheld the disgusting representation of human vices from her view, as unnecessary to her situation and dangerous to her humility.

After a short pause, Mrs. Wilson continued, “Marriage is a fearful step in a woman, and one she is compelled, in some measure, to adventure her happiness on, without fitting opportunities of judging of the merit of the man she confides in.  Jane is an instance in point, but I devoutly hope you are not to be another.”

While speaking, Mrs. Wilson had taken the hand of Emily, and by her looks and solemn manner she had succeeded in alarming her niece, although Denbigh was yet furthest from the thoughts of Emily.  The aunt reached her a glass of water, and willing to get rid of the hateful subject she continued, hurriedly, “Did you not notice the pocket-book Francis gave to Mr. Denbigh?” Emily fixed her inquiring eyes on her aunt, as the other added, “It was the one Mrs. Fitzgerald gave me to-day.”  Something like an indefinite glimpse of the facts crossed the mind of Emily; and as it most obviously involved a separation from Denbigh, she sank lifeless into the extended arms of her aunt.  This had been anticipated by Mrs. Wilson, and a timely application of restoratives soon brought her back to a consciousness of misery.  Mrs. Wilson, unwilling any one but herself should witness this first burst of grief, succeeded in getting her niece to her own room and in bed.  Emily made no lamentations—­shed no tears—­asked no questions—­her eye was fixed, and every faculty appeared oppressed with the load on her heart.  Mrs. Wilson knew her situation too well to intrude with unseasonable consolation or useless reflections, but sat patiently by her side, waiting anxiously for the moment she could be of service.  At length the uplifted eyes and clasped hands of Emily assured her she had not forgotten herself or her duty, and she was rewarded for her labor and forbearance by a flood of tears.  Emily was now able to listen to a more full statement of the reasons her aunt had for believing in the guilt of Denbigh, and she felt as if her heart was frozen up for ever, as the proofs followed each other until they amounted to demonstration.  As there was some indication of fever from her agitated state of mind, her aunt required she should remain in her room until morning; and Emily, feeling every way unequal to a meeting with Denbigh, gladly assented After ringing for her maid to sit in the adjoining