evidently mistrusted the praises so lavishly bestowed on the young man by Lord Malvern’s family; and how could she defend him, if accused of presumption towards herself?  Presumption there had not been; indeed, his conduct throughout had done him honour.  She fancied her mother would be displeased, might imagine she had encouraged the feeling of romantic admiration till it became an ideal passion, and made herself miserable.  Perhaps an unknown yet ever-lingering hope existed within, spite of despair; perhaps aerial visions would mingle in the darkness, and Emmeline shrunk, unconsciously, from their utter annihilation by the stern prohibition of her parents.  Such was the constant tenour of her thoughts; but one moment of excited feeling betrayed that which she had deemed would never pass her lips.

But a very few days had elapsed since Edward’s departure from Oakwood when, one afternoon, Mr. Hamilton entered the usual sitting-room of the family, apparently much disturbed.  Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen were engaged in work, and Emmeline sat at a small table in the embrasure of one of the deep gothic windows, silently yet busily employed it seemed in drawing.  She knew her father had gone that morning to the village, and as usual felt uneasy and feverish, fearing, reasonably or unreasonably, that on his return she would hear something unpleasant concerning Arthur; as she this day marked the countenance of her father, her heart throbbed, and her cheek, which had been flushed by the action of stooping, paled even unto death.

“What mishap has chanced in the village, that you look so grave, my dear love?” demanded his wife, playfully.

“I am perplexed in what matter to act, and grieved, deeply grieved, at the intelligence I have learned; not only that my prejudice is confirmed, but that the knowledge I have acquired concerning that unhappy young man places me in a most awkward situation.”

“You are not speaking very intelligibly, my dear husband, and therefore I must guess what you mean; I fear it is young Myrvin of whom you speak,” said Mrs. Hamilton, her playfulness gone.

“They surely have not been again bringing him forward to his discredit?” observed Ellen, earnestly.  “The poor young man is far away; why will they still endeavour to prejudice you and Mr. Howard against him?”

“I admire your charity, my dear girl, but, I am sorry to say, in this case it is unworthily bestowed.  There are facts now come to light which, I fear, unpleasant as will be the task, render it my duty to write to Lord Malvern.  Arthur Myrvin is no fit companion for his son.”

“His poor, poor father!” murmured Ellen, dropping her work, and looking sorrowfully, yet inquiringly, in her uncle’s face.

“But are they facts, Arthur—­are they proved? for that there is unjust prejudice against him in the village, I am pretty certain.”

“They are so far proved, that, by applying them to him, a mystery in the village is cleared up, and also his violent haste to quit our neighbourhood.  You remember Mary Brookes?”