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.

THE SECRET WITNESS.

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sity, as well as by the wish to gratify her mistress, she
had followed the stranger. To her utter astonishment,
the lady had paused at Mr. Dudley's door, with a seeming
resolution to enter it, but presently resumed her way.
Instead of pursuing her steps farther, Sarah had stopped
to communicate this intelligence to Constantia. Having
delivered her news, she hastened away, but, returning,
in a moment, with a countenance of new surprise, she
informed her mistress that on leaving the house she had
met Miss Monrose at the door, on the point of entering.
She added that the stranger had inquired for Constantia,
and was now waiting below.
Constantia took no time to reflect upon an incident
so unexpected and so strange, but proceeded forthwith to
the parlour. Martinette only was there. It did not
instantly occur to her that this lady and Mademoiselle
Monrose might possibly be the same. The inquiries she
made speedily removed her doubts, and it now appeared
that the woman about whose destiny she had formed so
many conjectures and fostered so much anxiety was no
other than the daughter of Roselli.
Having readily answered her questions, Martinette
inquired, in her turn, into the motives of her friend's
curiosity. These were explained by a succinct account
of the transactions to which the deceased Baxter had
been a witness. Constantia concluded with mentioning
her own reflections on the tale, and intimating her wish
to be informed how Martinette had extricated herself
from a situation so calamitous.
"Is there any room for wonder on that head?" replied
the guest. "It was absurd to stay longer in the house.
Iaving finished the interment of Roselli, (soldier-fashion,)
for he was the man who suffered his foolish regrets to destroy him, I forsook the house. Roselli was by no means
poor, but he could not consent to live at ease, or to live
at all, while his country endured such horrible oppressions, and when so many of his friends had perished.
I complied with his humour, because it could not be
changed, and I revered him too much to desert him."
"But whither," said Constantia, "could you seek
shelter at a time like that? The city was desolate, and
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