“Mother,” murmured the unhappy girl, with a powerful effort rising from the couch, and flinging herself on Mrs. Hamilton’s neck, “do not plead for me; I do not deserve it.  My conduct to you the last few months would alone demand the severest reproaches papa could inflict; and that, oh, that is but little to the crime I should have committed, had not the remembrance of all your devotion rushed to my mind, and arrested me, but a few brief hours ere it would have been too late, and I should have sacrificed myself to a man I discovered I did not love, merely to prove I was not a slave to your dictates, that I had a will of my own, and with or without your consent would abide by it.  I have been infatuated, blind—­led on by artful persuasion, false representations, and weakly I have yielded.  Do not weep for me, Emmeline, I am not worthy of your tears.  You would have guided me aright; you would have warned me, advised me, but I rejected your counsel, spurned your affection; with contempt, aversion from all, from each, do I deserve to be regarded.  Ellen, you may triumph now; I did all I could to prove how I hated and despised you some months ago, and now, oh, how much more I have fallen.  Oh, why, why did I ever leave Oakwood?—­why was I so eager to visit London?” Exhaustion choked her voice, the vehemence with which she had spoken overpowered her, and her mother was compelled to lead her to a couch, and force her to sit down beside her.  Mr. Hamilton spoke not; for a few minutes he paced the room with agitated steps, and then hastily quitted it.

“It is so very late, you had better retire, my dear girls,” Mrs. Hamilton said, after a brief pause, addressing Emmeline and Ellen, who yet lingered sorrowfully near her.  They understood her hint, and instantly obeyed, both affectionately but silently embracing Caroline ere they departed; and it was a relief to Mrs. Hamilton’s anxious bosom to find herself alone with her painfully repentant child.  For some time did that interview continue; and when Caroline retired to rest, it was with a spirit lighter than it had been for many weeks, spite of the dark clouds she still felt were around her.  All her strange wayward feelings had been confessed.  She laid no stress on those continued letters she had received from Annie, which had from the first alienated her from her mother.  Remorse was too busy within to bid her attempt to defend herself by inculpating others; but though she carefully avoided reference to her misleading friend, Mrs. Hamilton could easily, very easily, perceive from whose arts all her own misery and Caroline’s present suffering originated; and bitterly in secret she reproached herself for ever permitting that intimacy to continue, and obtain the influence it had.  To Lord St. Eval and her conduct to him the unhappy girl also referred.  Pride was completely at an end; every question Mrs. Hamilton asked was answered with all that candour and integrity which had once characterised her most trifling words;