“Mamma,” said she, when her mother joined her, “I am ill, and I know not what to do.”

“I know you are not well, my love,” replied her mother, “but I hope you’re not worse; how do you feel?”

“Quite feeble, utterly without strength, and dreadfully depressed and alarmed.”

“Alarmed, Alley!  Why, what could alarm you?  Does not Mr. Woodward always conduct himself as a gentleman?”

“He does, ma’am; but, nevertheless, I never wish to see him again.”

“Why, dear me!  Alice, is it reasonable that you should give way to such a prejudice against that gentleman?  Indeed I believe you absolutely hate him.”

“It is not personal hatred, mother; it is fear and terror.  I do not, as I said, hate the man personally, because I must say that he never deserved such a feeling at my hands, but, in the meantime, the sight of him sickens me almost to death.  I am not aware that he is or ever was immoral, or guilty of any act that ought to expose him to hatred; but, notwithstanding that, my impression, when conversing with him, is, that I am in the presence of an evil spirit, or of a man who is possessed of one.  Mamma, he must be excluded the house, and forbidden to visit here again, otherwise my health will be destroyed, and my very life placed in danger.”

“My dear Alice, that is all very strange,” replied her mother, now considerably alarmed at her language, but still more so at her appearance; “why, God bless me, child! now that I look at you, you certainly do seem to be in an extraordinary state.  You are the color of death, and then you are all trembling!  Why is this, I ask again?”

“The presence of that man,” she replied, in a faint voice; “his presence simply and solely.  That is what has left me as you see me.”

“Well, Alice, it is very odd and very strange, and it seems as if there was some mystery in it.  I will, however, talk to your father about it, and we will hear what he shall say.  In the meantime, raise your spirits, and don’t be so easily alarmed.  You are naturally nervous and timid, and this is merely a poor, cowardly conceit that has got into your head; but your own good sense will soon show you the folly of yielding to a mere fancy.  Amuse yourself on the spinet, and play some brisk music that will cheer your spirits; it is nothing but the spleen.”

Woodward, in the meantime, having effected his object, and satisfied himself of his power over Alice, pursued his way home in high spirits.  To his utter astonishment, however, he found the family in an uproar, the cause of which we will explain.  His mother, whose temper neither she herself nor any other human being, unless her husband, when provoked too far, could keep under anything like decent restraint, had got into a passion, while he, Woodward, was making his visit; and while in a blaze of resentment against the Goodwins she disclosed the secret of his rejection by Alice, and dwelt with bitter indignation upon the attachment she had avowed for Charles—­a secret which Henry had most dishonorably intrusted to her, but which, as the reader sees, she had neither temper nor principle to keep.