“And then, if I approve of your reason, as you say I shall, what is it that you fear?  Why, if your conscience does not reproach you, do you still hide it from me?”

Ellen was painfully silent.  Mrs. Hamilton continued, in a tone of marked displeasure, “I fear I am to find myself again deceived in you, Ellen, though in what manner as yet I know not.  I will not do such extreme violence to your inclinations as to command you to yield to my wishes.  If you desire so much to remain at home, do so; but I cannot engage to make any excuse for you.  Neither failing health nor being too young, can I now bring forward; I must answer all inquiries for you with the truth, that your own wishes, which I could not by persuasion overcome, alone keep you at, home.  My conscience will still be clear from the reproaches so plentifully showered on me by the world last season, that I feared to bring forward my orphan niece with my daughters, lest her charms should rival theirs.”

“Did the ill-natured and ignorant dare to say such a thing of you?” demanded Ellen, startled at this remark.

“They knew not the cause of your never appearing in public, and therefore, as appearances were against me, scrupled not to condemn.”

“And do you heed them?  Do these remarks affect you?” exclaimed Ellen, earnestly.

“No, Ellen.  I have done my duty; I will still do it, undisturbed by such idle calumnies, even should they now be believed by those whose opinions I value, who, from your seclusion, may imagine they have good reason.  In my conduct towards you the last two years I have nothing to reproach myself.”

“The last two years.  Oh, never, never, from the first moment I was under your care, never can your conduct to me have given you cause for self-reproach, dearest aunt.  Oh, do not say that the gratification of my wishes will give rise to a suspicion so unjust, so unfounded,” entreated Ellen, seizing with impetuosity the hand of her aunt.

“In all probability it will; but do not speak in this strain now, Ellen, it accords not well with the mystery of your words,” and Mrs. Hamilton coldly withdrew her hand.  There was a moment’s silence, for Ellen had turned away, pained to her heart’s core, and soon after she quitted the room to seek her own, where, throwing herself on a low seat by the side of her couch, she gave way to an unrestrained and violent flow of tears.  Mrs. Hamilton little knew the internal struggle her niece was enduring, the cause of her seclusion; that the term of her self-condemned probation was not fulfilled, that the long, tedious task was not accomplished; that it was for this purpose she so earnestly desired that her time might not be occupied by amusement, till her task was done, the errors of her earlier years atoned.  Mrs. Hamilton had seldom felt more thoroughly displeased and hurt with her niece than at the present moment.  Gentle, and invulnerable as she ever seemed to irritation, open as the day