But that day passed, and another, and another, yet no tidings of Herbert.  Mr Hardman now became alarmed, and wrote.  The answer was, that his son had started for Coote-down that day-week!  Inquiries were set on foot in all directions.  Every house was sent to at which the young man was known to visit.  Advertisements were circulated throughout the country, and afterwards published in the London newspapers, for tidings of Herbert Hardman, but without effect.  The most distressing fears were apprehended respecting his fate.  His parents were distracted; and the only conjecture which could be formed was, that as war had just broken out with America, he had been kidnapped by a press-gang for the sea-service.

This was a last hope, and Hardman hung upon it as upon life.  He wrote to the Admiralty, and, starting for Plymouth, made every inquiry likely to settle the doubt.  Alas! though press-gangs had been busy at their oppressive work, no such name as Hardman had been returned as having been one of their victims.  The conviction slowly stole over him, that some fatal accident or rash determination had ended Herbert’s term of life.  The dislike of her son, of which Mrs Hardman had been suspected, now melted completely away into the fondest affection for his memory.  She, however, did not entirely abandon the hope of seeing him again.

What, however, of Catherine all this while?  Alas! a misfortune had overtaken her, in the midst of which the mysterious disappearance of Herbert had not reached her.  While in London, she, by some unknown means, had contracted that fatal disease, then violently raging in the metropolis—­the small-pox.  For months her life was despaired of, and of course all knowledge of the absence of Herbert was kept from her.

Mr Hardman grieved to that excess, that he gradually sunk into the grave.  His funeral was a melancholy spectacle, for all knew the cause of his demise.  His good easy disposition made him extensively regretted.  Mrs Hardman’s native strength of mind, however, kept her up amidst her double loss.  She found a great consolation in assiduously attending Catherine’s sick-bed.  Misfortune had schooled every particle of pride from her breast, and she was a prey to remorse.  She accused herself—­not indeed entirely without justice—­of having caused the miseries, the effects of which she was now suffering.  ‘Would,’ she exclaimed to Dodbury one day, ’I could recall the past!’

Catherine’s recovery was protracted; and, alas! when she appeared in public, it was perceived that the disease had robbed her of her brightest charms.  Her face was covered with unsightly marks.  Still, the graceful figure, the winning smile, the fascinating manner, remained; and few, after the first shock of the change had passed away, missed the former loveliness of the once beautiful Catherine.  A year passed.  By slow and cautious hints and foreshadowings, the truth was revealed; but Miss Dodbury bore all with resignation.  ‘It is perhaps better for me,’ she one day said to Mrs Hardman, ’that it is so.  Had he loved and wedded another, I dared no longer to have cherished his image as I do.  But now it is my blessed privilege to love him in spirit as dearly as ever.’