 yielding up my life—But there again you interfered; I could not bear the thought of loading you with ignominy, of blasting your fair fame, and leaving you alone to stand the shock of infamy.
Yet while I write I feel I shall not long support my share of misery—a burning fever preys upon my nerves.—How wretched is my lot, still doomed to add new sorrows to that heart, for whose dear peace I would ten thousand times have sacrificed my own.
I tremble for your sufferings, Julia, when you shall hear your Henry is no more—Yet, O my love, my life, remember, that if my days were lengthened, they must be days of sorrow, nor would our fate permit that I should

soften or alleviate yours—We must have parted, Julia, and what is death but parting? Its only pang is there, and that is past.
Then grudge me not the sole retreat of misery, the peaceful grave; there only can your Henry know rest, and there I trust that he shall find it, if true contrition can atone his crime. O my loved Julia! add your prayers to mine, for pardon and peace to the departing spirit of your faithful dying
HENRY.
I will not vainly strive to paint the agonies I endured from the perusal of this letter, and the fatal account that followed it—but O my Lucy!
—Grief will not kill,
For Julia lives, to say that Henry died!

Here let me close the sad detail of all my sorrows—They could know no addition.
Can you, my once dear friend, without abhorrence, think of her who robbed you of a brother, and was the unhappy cause his pure and spotless soul was stained with blood?
Are you not now amazed how conscious of the evils I had brought upon your family, I dared to view your face, or to behold the day? Yet such was the fatality of my attachment to my dear departed Henry, I could not bear my own existence, but at those times my thoughts were fixed on him, and my sad fancy busied in retracing the likeness of his features in an Evelyn's face.
The secret of my woes is now revealed, and my heart lightened of an heavy

load.—But, after this confession I must decline our ever meeting more.—I should sink down abashed before you, and wound your gentle mind by my abasement.
But, at this distance, we may still converse; the healing balm of pity here may reach me, and soften every pain.
May saints and angels guard your steps, and innocence conduct them to the paths of
