have never rested in your endeavours to obtain both, and therefore, that such should be your recompense is sad indeed.  I sympathise with you, my dearest friend,” she continued, in a tone of much more feeling than she ever allowed to be visible.  “In the tale of shame I am repeating, I am inflicting misery upon you, I feel I am; and yet, in resigning my charge, I must do my duty, and set you on your guard, and let this one reflection be your comfort, that it was the recollection of your untiring care, your constant affection, which checked this infatuated girl in her career of error, and bade her pause ere it was too late.  For her sufferings I have little pity; she is no longer the character I believed her.  Neither integrity, honour, nor candour can be any longer inmates of her heart; the confession I have heard this night has betrayed a lengthened scheme of deception, to which, had I heard it of her, I should have given no credence.  Forgive me, my dear Emmeline, and look not on me so beseechingly; painful as it is, in the sincerest friendship alone I place before your too partial eyes the real character of your child.  I have now done my duty, and will therefore leave you.  God bless you, and grant you strength to bear this bitter trial.”  She turned to the unhappy father, who, as she spoke, had, overcome with uncontrollable agitation, sunk on a chair and covered his face with his hands, but with a strong effort he roused himself as she pronounced his name, and rose.

“Mr. Hamilton, to your wife, your inestimable wife, you owe the preservation of your child this night from sin.  Let her not, I beseech you, afflict herself too deeply for those sufferings under which she may behold Caroline for a time the victim.  She deserves them all—­all; but she merits not one half that affection which her fond and loving mother would lavish on her.  I leave you now, but, trust me, feeling deeply for you both.”

“Nay, rest with us to night, at least,” exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, conquering himself sufficiently to think of his friend’s situation, alone, in London, at such a late hour, and endeavouring to persuade her to remain with them; but decidedly, yet kindly, she refused.

“I sleep at St. James’s, and shall be back at Airslie to-morrow morning before my guests are recovered from the effects of to-night,” she urged.  “Your hospitality is kindly meant, Hamilton, but I cannot accept it; both Caroline and her mother can dispense with my company now.”

“Then let me accompany you home?”

“I will not hear of it, my good friend.  Good night, once more; God bless you!”

Mr. Hamilton knew the character of his noble friend too well to urge more, and therefore contented himself by accompanying her down stairs.

To describe Mrs. Hamilton’s feelings, as she listened to the words of the Duchess, would be indeed a vain attempt.  We know all the anguish she had suffered when Caroline’s conduct had first caused her uneasiness, and now the heightened agony of her fond heart may be easily imagined.  Almost unconsciously she had withdrawn her arm; but Caroline clung more convulsively to her robe, and her first wild words sounded again and again in her mother’s ears, soothing while they inflicted pain.