that I avoided you, after what I heard; and it was not till to–day I could sufficiently command my feelings, to stay at Mrs. Fortescue's, and see you; it is not that I still love you, for I cannot love the woman I no longer respect. I do not hate you; but I do sincerely pity you, and humbly, and fervently do I pray that you may, ere too late, see the errors of your conduct. You, by your own confession, deem coquetry a venial error; can that be such, from which come such cruel and mischievous results. But no more. I forgive you most freely, and shall ever fervently pray that you may see and feel how inimical to peace here, as well as hereafter, is such conduct as you have shown. 

 "Ever your sincere friend, F.B." 

 No words can do justice to the agony of Beatrice's feelings, as she read the foregoing letter. She was thunderstruck; here was a blow to her happiness, how completely was she caught in her own toils; she could but feel the retribution just. Of all men, she knew, George Graham to be one of the most fastidious, and that of all things he held the most despicable, she well knew, was a coquette. She loved him with passionate devotion, but knew, if the effort cost him his life, he would cast her from his affections. She was almost maddened with the thought. She did indeed feel that Mr. Barclay was amply revenged, and in feeling every hope of happiness was lost, she could judge to what she had nearly brought him; though she perhaps forgot that he had a support in the hour of trial to which she could not look, for she had wilfully erred. It had always been her practice to go daily to the village post office, consequently, no suspicions could arise on the part of Ethelind, as they would have done, had she seen the frequency of her friend's receiving letters. She rose early, and went the morning she was to leave. She started, as the well known writing met her eye on the address: her limbs trembled, and she feared to open the packet put into her hands. Her own letters were returned with the accompanying note:— 

 "Faithless, but still Dear Beatrice, 

 "Farewell, and for ever! May you never know the bitter pangs you have inflicted! I may be too fastidious, but I could never unite my fate with yours; the woman I marry I must respect, or I can never be happy; and miserable as I shall be without you, I feel that I should be still more wretched did I unite my fate with yours. My whole heart was, and is yours only, and had your feelings been what they ought, you would have spurned the paltry gratification of winning the affection you could not return, I sail for India to–morrow; to have seen you would be 

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