the ladies possessed in complete unison.  One morning John had accompanied them and been admitted; Mrs. Fitzgerald receiving him with the frankness of an old acquaintance, though with the reserve of a Spanish lady.  His visits were permitted under the direction of his aunt, but no others of the gentlemen were included amongst her guests.  Mrs. Wilson had casually mentioned, in the absence of her niece, the interposition of Denbigh between her and death; and Mrs. Fitzgerald was so much pleased at the noble conduct of the gentleman, as to express a desire to see him; but the impressions of the moment appeared to have died away, a nothing more was said by either lady on the subject, and it was apparently forgotten.  Mrs. Fitzgerald was found one morning, weeping over a letter she held in her hand, and the Donna Lorenza was endeavoring to console her.  The situation of this latter lady was somewhat doubtful; she appeared neither wholly a friend nor a menial.  In the manners of the two there was a striking difference; although the Donna was not vulgar, she was far from possessing the polish of her more juvenile friend, and Mrs. Wilson considered her to be in a station between that of a housekeeper and that of a companion.  After hoping that no unpleasant intelligence occasioned the distress they witnessed, the ladies were delicately about to take their leave, when Mrs. Fitzgerald entreated them to remain.

“Your kind attention to me, dear madam, and the goodness of Miss Moseley, give you a claim to know more of the unfortunate being your sympathy has so greatly assisted to attain her peace of mind.  This letter is from the gentleman of whom you have heard me speak, as once visiting me, and though it has struck me with unusual force, it contains no more than I expected to hear, perhaps no more than I deserve to hear.”

“I hope your friend has not been unnecessarily harsh:  severity is not the best way, always, of effecting repentance, and I feel certain that you, my young friend, can have been guilty of no offence that does not rather require gentle than stern reproof,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“I thank you, dear madam, for your indulgent opinion of me, but although I have suffered much, I am willing to confess it is a merited punishment; you are, however, mistaken as to the source of my present sorrow.  Lord Pendennyss is the cause of grief, I believe, to no one, much less to me.”

“Lord Pendennyss!” exclaimed Emily, in surprise, unconsciously looking at her aunt.

“Pendennyss!” reiterated Mrs. Wilson, with animation “and is he your friend, too?”

“Yes, madam; to his lordship I owe everything—­honor—­comfort—­religion—­and even life itself.”

Mrs. Wilson’s cheek glowed with an unusual color, at this discovery of another act of benevolence and virtue, in a young nobleman whose character she had so long admired, and whose person she had in vain wished to meet.

“You know the earl, then?” inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.