Barlow. Mr. Barlow cast his eye on the locket: he recognised an old likeness of himself; a sudden paleness overspread his face; he took the letter from Juliet's hand, to him unresisting; his eye glanced rapidly over it: the blood rushed again to his cheeks, coloured deeply his pale forehead, and again retreated. He threw his arms around Juliet, laid his head on hers, and sobbed out, "My child! Mary! Mary! my child!"
Mrs. Aikin guessed the meaning of all this. She dismissed the man with the assurance that he should be paid the small sum due to him, and then left Mr. Barlow to compose himself, and give to Juliet the joyful explanation of what seemed to her a riddle.
When she returned she found them calm, and as happy as they could be; their joy tempered by the following sad letter:—
Letter from Juliet's mother.
"My Dear Father:—On the bed of death, and with my little girl, who will soon be an orphan, beside me, I write this. My hand is stiff, and a racking cough interrupts me. I can write but a few lines at a time. Till last week I hoped to get well, consumption is so flattering.
"Dear father, I never told you any thing but truth about my situation in America; but I could not bear to distress you and sister with the whole truth. You could not help me, so I tried to suffer patiently; and I never felt alone, for when we nave no human friend nor help, then it is we feel God to be near. Ronald turned out what I might have expected when he persuaded me to marry
