William; and I have come to the conclusion that you and I must speak of them." Her husband looked much troubled, and waited for her to proceed. "We have not been as happy, William, as we ought to have been together, certainly as we hoped to be; have we?" "Let us not speak of the past, Fanny; I cannot bear it." Fanny was resolved to proceed. "If we cannot bear to speak of it, how can we bear to think of it? in our hearts which we lips?" Shall we carry that cannot trust to our "But what is the use of it Fanny?" "That we may, by confessing and understanding our mistakes learn to correct them. I have been the most faulty, William: no one who does not see our hearts can tell who has suffered most; but Heaven knows I have suffered enough." "I hoped I had been the greatest, the only sufferer; but let us not talk of such painful things, it will destroy you, Fanny; I will not consent to it, and I cannot bear it." "If I die," answered his wife, "all must now be said, all must be told to the last word, all confessed to the veriest trifle. You must bear it, let it be ever so painful, and I must speak if these should be my last words. Amy is right; our love has a rotten foundation if we have anything between us that may not be spoken of. I will make a clean breast to you now, if I never have before." "Dear Fanny, we have suffered too much; all is now as if it had never been; there is no danger that we shall commit the same faults." "Within this hour we have both committed the same faults that have caused all our misery. I tried to hide these letters, and you were hurt, and you did not tell me so. This was untrue in me, and not right in you." Fanny then reminded her husband of the letter she wrote to Amy, and asked him if he were not hurt at her not showing it to him. "Then why," He confessed he was. said Fanny, "did you not say so?" I feared to give you pain." "Very like," said Fanny, "I should not then have told you the truth; but henceforward I promise to speak the truth to you, cost what it may; and I have a right, William, to demand the same of you. It will be our only security for happiness. What I wished to hide from you, William, was a postscript to my letter to Amy, asking her to bring me all the letters I had written to her since our marriage. There they are, and Amy's answers. I meant to burn them; but Amy has convinced me that I had better tell you everything, and show them to you first; take them, and read them all." Fanny then gave her husband the letters. While he was reading she was perfectly silent. When he had finished, she told him calmly all she had endured from his silence, his reserve, and finally, from the conviction that he did not love her. She told him of everything she had thought and felt. Her husband heard her in profound silence; but his rising color, and his quivering lip showed how deeply he was moved. At last, as she spoke of her sufferings, he bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands, and groaned out, "Oh, Fanny, can you indeed forgive me? I have been unfaithful to my marriage vow; I have sinned against my own heart, and against you in the sight of God." "We have both sinned," sobbed out Fan"but the future is before us, let us do so ny; "Had I been open, and trustful, and true— 282 SKETCHES OF MARRIED LIFE. had my love been what it ought to have been, Fanny, all this misery would have been saved." "Let us be true and faithful for the future," said Fanny, as her head fell like that of a wearied and repentant child on her husband's bosom. "Henceforward," he said, and pressed her to his heart, "we will do better; henceforward we will be true to each other. We cannot have perfection, but we may have truth, we may have real love. "What a load is off my heart!" said Fanny, as she finished telling Amy of what had passed between her and her husband. "I feel so calm, so fearless, so sweetly peaceful. Bless you, dear Amy, for your truly faithful and wise counsel; you have saved me from misery, from worse than death." Mr. Selmar's business allowed of only a short stay, and he and Amy returned with their hearts overflowing with joy, at having witnessed the return of health and peace to the abode of their friends. CHAPTER XX. kt ""T is summer, glorious summer- LOUISA PARK. It was near sunset, on a fine day, in the latter part of spring, when some travellers slowly ascended a long steep hill. The party consisted of a gentleman, and his wife, and a little girl of about three years of age. They were walking, in order to relieve the horse of their weight, while he was slowly dragging up their light travelling carriage. "Poor old Robinette is so tired; let him rest on the top of the hill," said the father of the little girl who was impatient to get in, and find herself going again." "But Willy is waiting for me," said the child, as she threw back her golden ringlets, |