Since you will mistake her silence for indifference, come with me, and I'll show you one or two of her letters--no breach of confidence, I hope, since you are her other half.' He followed me into the library.

I sought out and put into his hands two of Milicent's letters: one dated from London, and written during one of his wildest seasons of reckless dissipation; the other in the country, during a lucid interval.

The former was full of trouble and anguish; not accusing him, but deeply regretting his connection with his profligate companions, abusing Mr.Grimsby and others, insinuating bitter things against Mr.Huntingdon, and most ingeniously throwing the blame of her husband's misconduct on to other men's shoulders.

The latter was full of hope and joy, yet with a trembling consciousness that this happiness would not last; praising his goodness to the skies, but with an evident, though but half-expressed wish, that it were based on a surer foundation than the natural impulses of the heart, and a half-prophetic dread of the fall of that house so founded on the sand,--which fall had shortly after taken place, as Hattersley must have been conscious while he read.
Almost at the commencement of the first letter I had the unexpected pleasure of seeing him blush; but he immediately turned his back to me, and finished the perusal at the window.

At the second, I saw him, once or twice, raise his hand, and hurriedly pass it across his face.