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 and do not drive me to despair by doubts, either of my love or my ability to make you happy."

Martha Porter took this letter from my trembling hand, and promising to be back by noon, she departed, leaving me in a state to which I cannot look back without great pain—the answer was to seal my fate.

One o'clock, two o'clock came; but Martha Porter did not return; I invented a thousand excuses—it might have been difficult to see the young lady alone—she might be ill—married—every thing pressed on my burning brain at once, and when poor Martha made her appearance at last, I rushed up to my room unable to hear the result of her mission.

A gentle knock at the door, and a gentle voice as I opened it brought some comfort—Martha's face too was in smiles, and a letter was in her hand—she saw that I was stupified, as it were, and unable to ask questions, so she quietly laid the letter on the table, and closing the door, went softly down stairs. Martha, dear Martha Porter, have I not been as a son to thee?

When the tumult of my feelings subsided I ventured to open the precious letter; my eye ran over the lines, but the sense came not, I did not comprehend a word. I sealed myself and prayed for composure, for my reason seemed departing, and as I prayed my strength returned. I am now persuaded that it was a sense of the blissful import of the letter that so completely unmanned me, although I would not allow myself to believe it. The blessed letter was as follows:

"I am convinced of your affection for me, I have known it for a long time, and I am sure that I can trust you. I am indeed very unhappy and with no hope that my uncle will ever cease his persecutions;