I sat down on my stone, with my letter in my hand.  I knew perfectly well that it could have come from no other person than Isopel Berners; but what did the letter contain?  I guessed tolerably well what its purport was—­an eternal farewell! yet I was afraid to open the letter, lest my expectation should be confirmed.  There I sat with the letter, putting off the evil moment as long as possible.  At length I glanced at the direction, which was written in a fine bold hand, and was directed, as the old woman had said, to the young man in “Mumpers’ Dingle,” with the addition, near -, in the county of—­ Suddenly the idea occurred to me, that, after all, the letter might not contain an eternal farewell; and that Isopel might have written, requesting me to join her.  Could it be so?  “Alas! no,” presently said Foreboding.  At last I became ashamed of my weakness.  The letter must be opened sooner or later.  Why not at once?  So as the bather who, for a considerable time, has stood shivering on the bank, afraid to take the decisive plunge, suddenly takes it, I tore open the letter almost before I was aware.  I had no sooner done so than a paper fell out.  I examined it; it contained a lock of bright flaxen hair.  “This is no good sign,” said I, as I thrust the lock and paper into my bosom, and proceeded to read the letter, which ran as follows:  —

“To the young man in Mumpers’ dingle.

“Sir,—­I send these lines, with the hope and trust that they will find you well, even as I am myself at this moment, and in much better spirits, for my own are not such as I could wish they were, being sometimes rather hysterical and vapourish, and at other times, and most often, very low.  I am at a sea-port, and am just going on shipboard; and when you get these I shall be on the salt waters, on my way to a distant country, and leaving my own behind me, which I do not expect ever to see again.

“And now, young man, I will, in the first place, say something about the manner in which I quitted you.  It must have seemed somewhat singular to you that I went away without taking any leave, or giving you the slightest hint that I was going; but I did not do so without considerable reflection.  I was afraid that I should not be able to support a leave-taking; and as you had said that you were determined to go wherever I did, I thought it best not to tell you at all; for I did not think it advisable that you should go with me, and I wished to have no dispute.

“In the second place, I wish to say something about an offer of wedlock which you made me; perhaps, young man, had you made it at the first period of our acquaintance, I should have accepted it, but you did not, and kept putting off and putting off, and behaving in a very strange manner, till I could stand your conduct no longer, but determined upon leaving you and Old England, which last step I had been long