Mrs. Wharton took it, and unconscious
of its contents, observed that the perusal might divert her a few
moments. She read for some time, when it suddenly dropped upon the
floor. She clasped her hands together, and raising her streaming eyes to
heaven, exclaimed, "It is the Lord; let him do what he will. Be still, O
my soul, and know that he is God."
"What, madam," said I, "can be the matter?" She answered not, but, with
inexpressible anguish depicted in her countenance, pointed to the paper.
I took it up, and soon found the fatal paragraph. I shall not attempt to
paint our heartfelt grief and lamentation upon this occasion; for we had
no doubt of Eliza's being the person described, as a stranger, who died,
at Danvers, last July. Her delivery of a child, her dejected state of
mind, the marks upon her linen, indeed every circumstance in the
advertisement, convinced us, beyond dispute, that it could be no other.
Mrs. Wharton retired immediately to her chamber, where she continued
overwhelmed with sorrow that night and the following day. Such in fact
has been her habitual frame ever since; though the endeavors of her
friends, who have sought to console her, have rendered her somewhat more
conversable. My testimony of Eliza's penitence before her departure is a
source of comfort to this disconsolate parent. She fondly cherished the
idea that, having expiated her offence by sincere repentance and
amendment, her deluded child finally made a happy exchange of worlds.
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