bringing ruin upon yourself, and blasting the happiness of others? That day you fell from the bridge and were taken up senseless, I passed by Mr. Kingley's on my return home, and Mary stood in the door pale as death. I intended to pass without speaking, as you know we are not much acquainted, and I felt that she would not care for the notice of any body at that time; but without any ceremony she asked me hurriedly if I had seen you, and how you were. I told her I had, and that you were not considered seriously injured. Then, her voice slightly trembling, she asked if I knew what made you fall. I hesitated a moment, and seeing by her changing color, the nervous motion of her lips, and the keen penetration of her eyes when she raised them, that she read the truth, and it was vain as well as wrong to conceal it from her, I resolved to answer—"
"Oh Walter! you did not tell her, did you? I would not have her know it for the world! Oh, my Mary! you will not cast me off! you must not!"
"Do you suppose I would deceive her? No! I should want any body to tell my sister, and you ought to have seen how like a hero she bore it. As white as marble, she was firm as a statue. You know some girls would have fainted, or gone into hysterics. I was standing on the door step, and she on the sill. She leaned against the side with her eyes fixed on that little bench under the great elm-tree where you used to sit together so much when you were children, as if beseeching it to try to save you. It was an awkward position for me I assure you. I did not know what to say next, and turned to leave. She
