I thought for a brief time that Mr.Stewart loved you, and whose hand may register the darkened thoughts that crowded bitterly up?
The morning we left New Orleans, I went into the schoolroom for our books.

Ah! who may know the agony of that hour! I sat down in his chair, and laid my head on his desk, and groaned in mine anguish of spirit.

Oh! Mary, that was the blackest, bitterest hour of my life.

I had fancied he loved me: I feared I was deceived; I hated--despised myself for my weakness.

Yet I could not reproach him; he had never sought my love.
"I had just risen from his desk when Mr.Stewart came in.