actress in search of an engagement.  Though you said I was to think no more of the stage, I believe you would not care if you found me there.  But I am not an actress by nature, and art will never make me one.  I am too timid and retiring; I was intended for a cottager’s wife.  I certainly shall not try to go on the boards again whilst I am in this strange place.  The idea of being brought on as far as London and then left here alone!  Why didn’t you leave me in Liverpool?  Perhaps you thought I might have told somebody that my real name was Mrs. Manston.  As if I had a living friend to whom I could impart it—­no such good fortune!  In fact, my nearest friend is no nearer than what most people would call a stranger.  But perhaps I ought to tell you that a week before I wrote my last letter to you, after wishing that my uncle and aunt in Philadelphia (the only near relatives I had) were still alive, I suddenly resolved to send a line to my cousin James, who, I believe, is still living in that neighbourhood.  He has never seen me since we were babies together.  I did not tell him of my marriage, because I thought you might not like it, and I gave my real maiden name, and an address at the post-office here.  But God knows if the letter will ever reach him.

’Do write me an answer, and send something.—­Your affectionate wife, EUNICE.’

’FRIDAY, October 28.

’MY DEAR HUSBAND,—­The order for ten pounds has just come, and I am truly glad to get it.  But why will you write so bitterly?  Ah —­well, if I had only had the money I should have been on my way to America by this time, so don’t think I want to bore you of my own free-will.  Who can you have met with at that new place?  Remember I say this in no malignant tone, but certainly the facts go to prove that you have deserted me!  You are inconstant—­I know it.  O, why are you so?  Now I have lost you, I love you in spite of your neglect.  I am weakly fond—­that’s my nature.  I fear that upon the whole my life has been wasted.  I know there is another woman supplanting me in your heart—­yes, I know it.  Come to me—­do come.  EUNICE.’

’41 CHARLES SQUARE, HOXTON,
November 19.

’DEAR AENEAS,—­Here I am back again after my visit.  Why should you have been so enraged at my finding your exact address?  Any woman would have tried to do it—­you know she would have.  And no woman would have lived under assumed names so long as I did.  I repeat that I did not call myself Mrs. Manston until I came to this lodging at the beginning of this month—­what could you expect?

’A helpless creature I, had not fortune favoured me unexpectedly.  Banished as I was from your house at dawn, I did not suppose the indignity was about to lead to important results.  But in crossing the park I overheard the conversation of a young man and woman who had also risen early.  I believe her to be the girl who has won you away from me.  Well, their conversation concerned you and Miss Aldclyffe,