The novels of Charles Brockden Brown, consisting of Wieland;or, The transformation. Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793. Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a sleep-walker. Jane Talbot. Ormond; or, The secret witness. Clara Howard; or, The enthusiasm of love. With a memoir of the author.

162 JANE TALBOT.
by delivering up the letter to the writer. I consented
to take charge of it for that purpose.
You will judge my surprise, when I received a letter,
with the seal unbroken, directed to Mrs. Fielder, of New
York. Jane and I had often been astonished at the
minute intelligence which her mother received of our
proceedings; at the dexterity this secret informant had
displayed in misrepresenting and falsely construing our
actions. The informer was anonymous, and one of the
letters had been extorted from her mother by Jane's
urgent solicitations. This I had frequently perused, and
the penmanship was still familiar to my recollection. It
bore a striking resemblance to the superscription of this
letter, and was equally remote from Miss Jessup's ordinary handwriting. Was it rash to infer from these circumstances that the secret enemy, whose malice had been
so active and successful, was at length discovered?
What was I to do? Should I present myself before Miss
Jessup with this letter in my hand, and lay before her my
suspicions, or should I carry it to Mrs. Fielder, to whom
it was directed? My curiosity was defeated by the careful manner in which it was folded; and this was not a case
in which I deemed myself authorized to break a seal.
After much reflection, I determined to call upon Miss
Jessup. I meant not to restore her the letter, unless the
course our conversation should take made it proper. I
have already been at her house. She was not at home.
I am to call again at eight o'clock in the evening.
In my way thither I passed MIrs. Talbot's house.
There were scarcely any tokens of its being inhabited.
No doubt the mother and child have returned together to
New York. On approaching the house, my heart, too
heavy before, became a burden almost insupportable. I
hastened my pace, and averted my eyes.
I am now shut up in my chamber at an inn. I feel
as if in a wilderness of savages, where all my safety
consisted in solitude. I was glad not to meet with a
human being whom I knew.
What I shall say to Miss Jessup when I see her, I know
not. I have reason to believe her the author of many
slanders, but look for no relief from the mischiefs they