REPLY OF FRANK.
I thank you, my noble cousin, I thank you. It is too
true. “She never loved me.” I have just left her. My
hand is unsteady. Enclosed, is her reply to you. She
was very sick—but I have seen her. Yes! I have been at
her side. What passed, I cannot tell thee—perhaps she
has communicated it, in her letter. If not, it is a secret,
and shall die with me. Do I feel any self-abasement?—
No! Do I repine? No, no! God hath given me strength
to face heavier trials than this. God hath dealt with me,
mightily, before—and no mortal knew it. Nay, at this
moment, I am more composed than—Her tears—her
tenderness—her emotion at the bridge—the fountain—the
hill—the rock—the stream!—O, who would not have
been deceived, as I was.—We had visited them together.
I knew not that they were already dear, so dear,
so very dear to her:—and when I saw her there, again—
traced her mysterious rambling to the same spot—surprised
her, at last, in confusion and tears—O! how little
thought I, that her trembling—her speechless supplication—her
shame—were—not for me!—oh! not for
me!—I cannot go on!—I know not what I write!—
