 nonsense, and a
miserable wrong - the result, like so many others, of masculine egotism - that
the success or failure of woman's existence should be made to depend wholly on
the affections, and on one species of affection; while man has such a multitude
of other chances, that this seems but an incident. For its own sake, if it will
do no more, the world should throw open all its avenues to the passport of a
woman's bleeding heart.
    As we stood around the grave, I looked often towards Priscilla, dreading to
see her wholly overcome with grief. And deeply grieved, in truth, she was. But a
character, so simply constituted as hers, has room only for a single predominant
affection. No other feeling can touch the heart's inmost core, nor do it any
deadly mischief. Thus, while we see that such a being responds to every breeze,
with tremulous vibration, and imagine that she must be shattered by the first
rude blast, we find her retaining her equilibrium amid shocks that might have
overthrown many a sturdier frame. So with Priscilla! Her one possible misfortune
was Hollingsworth's unkindness; and that was destined never to befall her -
never yet, at least - for Priscilla has not died.
    But, Hollingsworth! After all the evil that he did, are we to leave him
thus, blest with the entire devotion of this one true heart, and with wealth at
his disposal, to execute the long contemplated project that had led him so far
astray? What retribution is there here? My mind being vexed with precisely this
query, I made a journey, some years since, for the sole purpose of catching a
last glimpse at Hollingsworth, and judging for myself whether he were a happy
man or no. I learned that he inhabited a small cottage, that his way of life was
exceedingly retired, and that my only chance of encountering him or Priscilla
was, to meet them in a secluded lane, where, in the latter part of the
afternoon, they were accustomed to walk. I did meet them, accordingly. As they
approached me, I observed in Hollingsworth's face a depressed and melancholy
look, that seemed habitual; the powerfully built man showed a self-distrustful
weakness, and a childlike, or childish, tendency to press close, and closer
still, to the side of the slender woman whose arm was within his. In Priscilla's
manner, there was a protective and watchful quality, as if she felt herself the
guardian of her companion, but, likewise, a
