, would be insupportable now that she had experienced Henry's kindness, and he was no longer near to fortify her patience. She sighed—she wept—she was unhappy.
But if Rebecca awoke with a dejected mind and an a king heart, what were the sorrows of Hannah? The only child of two doating parents, she never had been taught the necessity of resignation—untutored, unread, unused to reflect, but knowing how to feel; what were her sufferings when, on waking, she called to mind that "William was gone," and

with him gone all that excess of happiness which his presence had bestowed, and for which she had exchanged her future tranquillity.
Loss of tranquillity even Rebecca had to bemoan—Hannah had still more—the loss of innocence!
Had William remained in the village, shame, even conscience perhaps had slept; but separated from her betrayer, parted from the joys of guilt, and left only to its sorrows, every sting which quick sensibility could sharpen, was transfixed in her heart to torture her. First came the recollection of a cold farewell from the man whose love she had hoped her yielding passion had for ever won—next, flashed on her thoughts her violated person—next, the crime incurred—next, her cruelty to her tender parents—and last of all came the horrors of detection.
She knew that as yet, by wariness, care, and contrivance, her meetings with William had been unsuspected; but in this agony of mind her fears foreboded an informer who would defy all caution; who would stigmatise her with a name—dear

and desired by every virtuous female—abhorrent to the blushing harlot—the name of mother.
That Hannah, thus impressed, could rise from her bed, meet her parents and her neighbours with her usual smile of vivacity, and voice of mirth, was impossible—to leave her bed at all, to creep down stairs, and reply in a faint broken voice to questions asked, were, in her state of mind, mighty efforts; and all to which her struggles could attain for many weeks.
William had promised to write to her while he was away: he kept his word; but not till the end of two months she received a letter. Fears for his health, apprehension of his death during this cruel interval, caused an agony of suspence that, by representing him to her distracted fancy in a state of suffering, made him, if possible, still dearer to her. In the excruciating anguish of uncertainty, she walked with trembling steps through all weathers (when she could steal half a day while her parents were employed in labour abroad) to the post

town at six miles distance, to enquire
