Fayetteville Observer

I remember well quite a pretty incident—which may not be uninteresting to the reader. A wild young fellow married a lovely girl, and having long been addicted to habits of dissipation, even the sincere attachment which he felt for his wife could not entirely disentangle him from its snares. His occasional irregular hours would have given any but one of so pure and sweet a disposition every reason to suspect that she did not hold that place in his affections which was her right; but this reflection scarcely ever intruded upon her spirits. The husband was far from being cruel, and really loved her, but his disposition was weak, and his companions were eloquent and he seemed to grow worse rather than better in his habits. It happened once that he was called out of town and, in haste, left behind him a letter, in which, to please an unprincipled friend, he had spoken of his wife in terms of derision, and dilated freely on his course of life. Imagine the anxiety and suspense of the startled profligate, when he found himself borne by a rapid steamer on a journey that must of necessity be of several days duration, yet remembered distinctly that the fatal letter was exposed and unsealed on his wife's table. He recollected too, with a pang, that he had wantonly, in reply to her enquiries, boasted that it contained a profound secret, which he would not have revealed for the world. He paced the deck in an agony of disappointment and shame. He pictured her opening the letter, turning pale with horror and indignation—perhaps fainting with anguish—alarming the servants—flying to her father, renouncing him forever.

As soon as possible he returned, but with a sinking heart he entered his dwelling, bracing himself up to meet the fury of an enraged and wretched woman. He opened the door softly. She was bending over the table busily writing. A black smile sealed her mouth with perfect beauty, and spread over glowing features the mild expression of peace and joy: and as she wrote, the fragment of a sweet ballad fell from her lips, in low music that only flows from a heart entirely at peace. The husband stole noiselessly around and read, as her pen traced her gentle thoughts:

'Your letter is lying by me—the very letter containing profound secrets. Now I could punish you for your carelessness, but my dearest Charles, how could I look you in the face, on your return, after having basely violated your trust in my integrity and meanly sought to gratify a silly curiosity at the expense of honesty, delicacy, and confidence. No. The letter is unopened and, lest you feel uneasy I enclose it to you with the sincere love of your affectionate wife,' &c.

'What an angel,' exclaimed the conscience stricken husband.

She started up with a cry of pleasure, and, as Charles met the light of her unshrinking eye he was humbled that he should have suspected her, and deeply struck with repentance at his own conduct. He thenceforth severed all ties that drew him abroad, and if the pure being whose influence had allured him to the path of right had perused his subsequent letters, she would have found nothing concerning herself, save bursts of sincerest admiration and warmest love.