It was a bright afternoon in early autumn, that Annie sat sewing by a window in the luxuriously furnished parlor of Colonel Stuart, her uncle, who was the practicing physician of the village, that she was started by a loud ringing of the door bell.  Supposing it was some one after her uncle, she paid little heed till she heard her own name called, and in a moment after Edward Merton stood before her.  He extended his hand, exclaiming, “My Annie.”  There was a marble paleness upon her cheek, and with a trembling voice she saluted him.  He said as he was returning from Augusta he thought he would take that opportunity to return her letters, and take his, at the same time drawing a small package from his pocket.  She took them with a trembling hand, but strove to appear calm, for she saw he was watching her with Argus eyes to fathom the secret recesses of her soul.

She entered her chamber and took from a small box, which was a gift from Edward, those dear old letters, over which she had wept so often, and which breathed tender tones of love and affection, and spoke of happy wedded days in the perspective.

But now she must part with these too.  She pressed them once more to her heart, and entering the room, presented them to him.  He glanced at her earnestly as he took them from her, saying as he did so,

“You do not look well, Miss Somers.”

She colored slightly, and replied,

“O yes sir, I am quite well.”

“I suppose,” continued he, “you have heard that I was about being married.”

“I have,” was her brief answer.

“It is a mistake, I have no idea of it,” and wishing her a hasty good afternoon he took his leave without any reference to or explanation of past events.

Annie sat like a statue after his departure, crushing the letters in her hands, gazing upon vacancy.  A marble paleness overspread her face, and she felt now that her cup of misery was indeed full.  She laid aside her work, and locking herself in her chamber gave vent to her feelings in a passionate flood of tears.  She tried to conquer her feelings and summon her woman’s pride to her aid, but it would not do.  “Cruel Edward,” she mentally exclaimed, “you might have spared me this, or told me the cause of this neglect and coldness.”  And as she reflected upon the trapping of wealth with which he was surrounded, and the splendor of his equipage, she asked herself, “can it be that love of gold is the cause?” Echo answered “can it be?”

As the weary night drew to a close, the tempest in the poor girl’s bosom began to subside.  But as the heaving ocean bears upon its waves plank after plank of the ship-wrecked vessel that has been stranded upon its tempest tossed bosom, so did the surging waves of memory bring back one incident after another in her past life, and picture the tender looks and the tender tones of the unfaithful Edward, during the many long years she had regarded him as her future husband.  To him she had yielded up her heart’s best affections.  For his sake she had rejected many an advantageous offer of marriage.