“You wonder, probably, at not getting a letter from Mildred.  Don’t be surprised when I tell you that she has left home and is staying at Mr. Alford’s.  Mrs. Kinloch has for a long time wanted her to marry that hateful Hugh Branning, and became so violent about it that Mildred was afraid of her.  Lucy Ransom, who lived there, ran away a short time ago, very mysteriously.  It seems that the girl had stolen something from the house, and, after Mildred had plumply refused to marry Hugh, Mrs. Kinloch charged upon her that she had induced Lucy to steal the papers or money, or whatever it was.  Mrs. Kinloch acted so like an insane woman, that Mildred would not stay in the house, but ran over to Mr. Alford’s, with only the clothes she wore.  She passed by our house yesterday and told me this hurriedly.  I have heard, too, that Squire Clamp is about to marry Mrs. Kinloch, and that he actually has procured the license.  It’s a very strange affair.

“To fill out the account of disagreeable things,—­last evening, in one of the stores, people were talking of Lucy Ransom’s fate, (as they have been for weeks,) when Will Fenton, the cripple, said, ’he guessed Hugh Branning could tell what had become of her, if he chose.’  Hugh, it seems, heard of the remark, and to-day he went with a dandyish doctor, belonging to the navy, I believe, and beat the poor cripple with a horsewhip, most shamefully.  I think this violence has turned suspicion against him.

“I am sorry not to have one pleasant thing to say, except that we all love you as warmly as ever, and hope to see you soon here.  Indeed, Cousin Mark, I dread to write it,—­but if you don’t come soon, I think you will see father only on his last bed.

“Good-bye, dear Mark! 
Your Cousin,—­Lizzie.”

We will waste no time in attempting to analyze Mark’s conflicting emotions, but follow him to Innisfield, whither he went the same day.  Great as was his desire to see his betrothed, from whom he had received no letter for many weeks, he went first of all, where duty and affection called, to see the dear old man who had been to him more than a father.

Mr. Hardwick was sitting in the corner, but rose up with a new energy as he heard the well-known voice.  Mark was not prepared, even by his cousin’s foreboding letter, to see such a change as his uncle exhibited;—­the hollow eyes, the wasted cheeks, the bent figure, the trembling hands, bore painful testimony to his enfeebled condition.  He held both of Mark’s hands in his, and, while his eyes were dim in a tear-mist, said, with a faltering voice, “Bless you, m-my boy!  I’m glad to see you once more.  I thought I might hear my s-summons before you’d come.  You do remember your old uncle!”

Mark could not restrain himself, but wept outright.  The old gentleman sank into his chair, still clasping Mark’s hands.  Neither could speak, but they looked towards each other an unutterable tenderness.