Yet all that her mother’s last appeal could obtain for the hapless Matilda, not as her child, but as the granddaughter of Mr. Milner, was the shelter of her father’s roof on condition that she avoided his sight.  When by accident or design he ever saw or heard from her, that moment his compliance with her mother’s request ceased, and he abandoned her once more.  Still, the joy of being, even in so remote a way, under her father’s care, was extreme for her, though it was tempered with jealousy of Rushbrook—­a feeling which even her noble heart could not completely quell—­jealousy which was shared on her account by both Miss Woodley and Mr. Sandford, and frequently made them unjust to Harry, whom they regarded as an interloper.

But his passionate gratitude to Lady Elmwood, by whose entreaties he had been restored to his uncle’s favour, had made him adore her daughter with an equal passion.  He gazed with wonder at his uncle’s insensibility to his own happiness, and would gladly have led him to the jewel he cast away, though even his own expulsion should be the fatal consequence.

At last, by accident, Lord Elmwood returned unexpectedly home when Matilda was descending the staircase, and, in her affright, she fell motionless into her father’s arms.  He caught her, as by the same impulse he would have caught anyone falling for want of aid.  Yet, when he found her in his arms, he still held her there—­gazed on her attentively—­and pressed her to his bosom.

At length, trying to escape the snare into which he had been led, he was going to leave her on the spot where she fell, when her eyes opened, and she uttered, “Save me!” Her voice unmanned him.  His long-restraining tears now burst forth, and, seeing her relapsing into the swoon, he called out eagerly to recall her.  Her name did not, however, come to his recollection—­nor any name but this—­“Miss Milner, dear Miss Milner.”

The sound did not awaken her; and now again he wished to leave her in this senseless state, that not remembering what had passed, she might escape the punishment.

But at this instant his steward passed, and into his hands he delivered his apparently dead child, his face agitated with shame, with pity, with anger, with paternal tenderness.  On her recovery she was sent to a neighbouring farm, not more than thirty miles away, her father having given orders that it should be so.

Then a libertine lover of Lady Matilda’s, finding her no longer under her father’s protection, resolved to abduct her, and by raising an alarm of fire, caused all the inhabitants of the farmhouse to open the doors, when two men rushed in, and, with the plea of saving her from the flames, carried her away.  News of this being taken to her father, he at once set out in pursuit, and reached her in her last agony of despair, folding her in his arms with the unrestrained fondness of a parent.

It was now the middle of November; and yet, as Matilda passed along, never to her did the sun shine so bright as upon this morning; never did her imagination comprehend that the human heart could feel happiness true and genuine as hers!