which had been the scene of her brief months of happiness; but when change of air was pleaded in behalf of her child, then suffering from lingering fever, when change of climate was strongly recommended by the physicians, in secret for herself equally with that of her little girl, she hesitated no longer, and a throb of mingled pain and pleasure swelled her too fond heart as her foot pressed the native land of her husband.  Some friends of her mother, unacquainted with her sad story, resided near Oxford, and thither they bent their steps, and finally fixed their residence, where Mrs. Amesfort soon had the happiness of beholding her child restored to perfect health and radiant in beauty; perhaps the faint hope that Alphingham might one day unconsciously behold his daughter, reconciled her to this residence in England.  She was in his own land; she might hear of him, of his happiness; and, deeply injured as she was, that knowledge, to her too warm, too devoted heart was all-sufficient.

Such were the particulars of the story which Percy concisely yet fully related in confidence to his sister.  Caroline neither moved nor spoke during his recital; her features still retained their deadly paleness, and her brother almost involuntarily felt alarmed.  A few words she said, as he ceased, in commentary on his tale, and her voice was calm.  Nor did her step falter as she quitted the library, and returned to her own room, when, carefully closing the door, she sunk on the nearest seat, and covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out all outward objects, gave unchecked dominion to the incongruous thoughts occasioned by Percy’s tale.  She could not define or banish them; a sudden oppression appeared cast upon her brain, deadening its powers, and preventing all relief from tears.  The ruin, the wretchedness from which she had been mercifully preserved stood foremost in her mind, all else appeared a strange and frightful dream.  The wife and child of Alphingham flitted like mocking phantoms before her eyes, and the countenance of Alphingham himself glared at her, and his gibing laugh seemed to scream in her ears, and transform him into a malignant fiend revelling in the misery he had created.  She strove to pray but vainly; no words of such soothing and consoling import rose to her lips.  How long she remained in this state of wretchedness she knew not, but it was the mild accents of her mother’s voice that roused her from her trance.

“Are you not well, Caroline?  What is the matter, love?” Mrs. Hamilton asked, alarmed at the icy coldness of her daughter’s hand, and kissing, as she spoke, her pallid cheek.

Caroline threw her arms round her, and a violent flood of tears relieved the misery from which she was suffering so painfully.

“Do not ask me to reveal the cause of this weakness, my dearest mother,” she said, when voice returned.  “I shall be better now, and never, never again shall recollections of the past, by afflicting me, cause you solicitude.  Do not fancy this apparent grief has anything to do with regret at my late decision, or for still lingering affection; oh, no, no.  Do not look at me so anxiously, mother; I have had a long, long conversation with Percy, and that has caused the weakness you perceive; but it will soon pass away, and I shall be your own happy Caroline again.”