“Are you sick, my daughter?” was the mother’s affectionate inquiry.  But she was cheered by the assurance that there was no serious cause of alarm; and that Ellen was only a little unwell.  Without any mishap, they reached their new home in Kentucky.

Two weeks had passed, and Eliza Fleming was still unmarried.  During that time, she had seen Durant but twice, and he appeared desirous of avoiding a private interview.  She was not slow to perceive this, and it filled her mind with misgivings of his truth, or the sincerity of his protestations.  She demanded an interview; the demand was acceded to; and she said: 

“Why do you not make arrangements for our approaching marriage?  It is surely time you were about it.”

“Oh, no hurry yet,” he replied.  “There is plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time!  Yes, if all that need be done, is to call the minister, and have the ceremony performed!  But it strikes me this is not all.  However, what day have you fixed upon as your choice for the wedding occasion?”

“I can’t say as I have thought upon any day in particular; in fact, the subject had so far escaped my mind, that I had nearly forgotten it entirely.”

“A devoted lover, truly!  What am I to think of such unmerited coldness?” and she burst into tears.

“Come, Eliza, let us understand each other, and be friends.”

“Friends!  Is that all?”

“Lovers, then.”

“Husband and wife, you mean.”

“Lovers only; as we have been.”

“Am I to understand you as saying you will not fulfill your written promise of making me your lawful wife?”

“You might be farther from the truth.”

“Is this the reward of my devotion? the fruits of my sacrifice?  Oh, God, who shall measure the depths of wickedness of a depraved heart?  Sir, I shall enforce my rights.”

“You dare not do it.”

“Why not?”

“The very attempt will ruin yourself, and your father’s business by bringing disgrace upon his house.”

“I see it, sir; but what if I still proceed?”

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

“On what plan?”

“On your own written promise.”

“You have no such promise.”

“Do you deny giving it?”

“I do.”

“Then your own hand-writing will condemn you.”

“Be certain of that before you proceed.”

“You know I have such a document.”

“I know you have not.”

“Then I will prove it.”

And she went in search of the paper, where she had carefully placed it away.  But no paper was to be found!  What could have become of it?  She returned.

“Well, let me see your ‘document,’ as you term it,” he said, in a taunting manner.

“It has been misplaced by some means, but I will find it in time to answer my purpose.”

“Perhaps.”

“Durant, you know I have such a paper, and what is the use of denying it?”