burst into a passion of tears.  “Oh, why—­why,” I asked as soon as I could speak, “why have you not written to us?” “I dared not!” she gasped.  “But oh tell me, do you—­does your husband remember me with kindness?  Can I still reckon on his protection—­his support?” I assured her you would receive her as your own child:  the whispered words had barely passed my lips, when Mr. Harlowe, who had swiftly approached us unperceived, said, “Madam, the carriage waits.”  His stern, pitiless eye glanced from his wife to me, and stiffly bowing, he said, “Excuse me for interrupting your conversation; but time presses.  Good-day.”  A minute afterwards, the carriage drove off.”

I was greatly shocked at this confirmation of my worst fears; and I meditated with intense bitterness on the fate of a being of such meek tenderness exposed to the heartless brutalities of a sated sensualist like Harlowe.  But what could be done?  She had chosen, deliberately, and after warning, chosen her lot, and must accept the consequences of her choice.  In all the strong statutes, and sharp biting laws of England, there can be found no clause wherewith to shield a woman from the “regulated” meanness and despotism of an unprincipled husband.  Resignation is the sole remedy, and therein the patient must minister to herself.

On the morning of the Sunday following Edith’s brief interview with my wife, and just as we were about to leave the house to attend divine service, a cab drove furiously up to the door, and a violent summons by both knocker and bell announced the arrival of some strangely-impatient visitor.  I stepped out upon the drawing-room landing, and looked over the banister rail, curious to ascertain who had honored me with so peremptory a call.  The door was quickly opened, and in ran, or rather staggered, Mrs. Harlowe, with a child in long clothes in her arms.

“Shut—­shut the door!” she faintly exclaimed, as she sank on one of the hall seats.  “Pray shut the door—­I am pursued!”

I hastened down, and was just in time to save her from falling on the floor.  She had fainted.  I had her carried up stairs, and by the aid of proper restoratives, she gradually recovered consciousness.  The child, a girl about four months old, was seized upon by Mary and Kate, and carried off in triumph to the nursery.  Sadly changed, indeed, as by the sickness of the soul, was poor Edith.  The radiant flush of youth and hope rendering her sweet face eloquent of joy and pride, was replaced by the cold, sad hues of wounded affections and proud despair.  I could read in her countenance, as in a book, the sad record of long months of wearing sorrow, vain regrets, and bitter self-reproach.  Her person, too, had lost its rounded, airy, graceful outline, and had become thin and angular.  Her voice, albeit, was musical and gentle as ever, as she murmured, on recovering her senses, “You will protect me from my—­from that man?” As I warmly pressed her hand, in