“Mr. Smith is late in coming home to his dinner,” the aunt said, looking at the timepiece.

The young wife lifted her head from her hand, with a sigh, and merely responded,

“Yes, he is rather late.”

“I wonder what keeps him so!” the old lady remarked, about five minutes after, breaking the oppressive silence.

“I’m sure I cannot tell.  I gave him my certificates of stock to sell this morning.”

“You did?  I am afraid that was wrong, Margaretta.”

“I’m sure I cannot tell whether it is or not, aunt.  But I’ve had no peace about them, night nor day, since the bank failed.”

There was bitterness in the tone of Margaretta’s voice, that touched the feelings of her aunt, and tended to confirm her worst fears.  But she could not, now, speak out plainly, as she had felt constrained to do before marriage, and therefore did not reply.

For more than an hour did the two women wait for the return of Mr. Smith, and then they went through the form of sitting down to the dinner-table.  But few mouthfuls of food passed the lips of either of them.

Hour after hour moved slowly by, but still the husband of Margaretta appeared not; and when the twilight fell, it came with a strange uncertain fear to the heart of the young wife.

“What can keep him so late, aunt?” she said, anxiously, as the lights were brought in.

“Indeed, my child, I cannot tell.  I hope that nothing is wrong.”

“Wrong, aunt?  What can be wrong?” and Margaretta looked her aunt eagerly and inquiringly in the face.

“I am sure, my child, I do not know.  Something unusual must detain him, and I only hope that something may be evil neither to him nor yourself.”

Again there was a deep and painful silence—­painful at least to one heart, trembling with an undefinable sensation of fear.

“There he is!” ejaculated Margaretta springing to her feet, as the bell rang, and hurrying to the door before the servant had time to open it.

“Here is a letter for Mrs. Smith,” said a stranger, handing her a sealed note, and then withdrawing quickly.

It was with difficulty that the young wife could totter back to the parlour, where she seated herself by the table, and with trembling hands broke the seal of the letter that had been given her.  Her eyes soon took in the brief words it contained.  They were as follow:—­

“Farewell, Margaretta!  We shall, perhaps, never meet again!  Think of me as one altogether unworthy of you.  I have wronged you—­sadly wronged you, I know—­but I have been driven on by a kind of evil necessity to do what I have done.  Forget me!  Farewell!”

This note bore neither date nor signature, but the characters in which it was written were too well known to be mistaken.

Mrs. Riston saw the fearful change that passed over the face of her niece as she read the note, and went quickly up to her.  She was in time to save her from falling to the floor.  All through the night she lay in a state of insensibility, and it was weeks before she seemed to take even the slightest interest in any thing that was going on around her.