“That poor girl who died, it was said, of such a rapid decline?  Perfectly well.”

“It was not a decline, my dear Emmeline; would that it had been.  She was beautiful, innocent, in conversation and manner far above her station.  There are many to say she loved, and believed, in the fond trust of devotion, all that the tempter said.  She was worthy to be his wife, and she became his victim.  His visits to her old grandmother’s cottage I myself know were frequent.  He deserted her, and that wild agony broke the strings of life which remorse had already loosened; ten days after Myrvin quitted the village she died, giving birth to an unhappy child of sin and sorrow.  Her grandmother, ever dull in observation and sense, has been silent, apparently stupefied by the sudden death of her Mary, and cherishes the poor helpless infant left her by her darling.  Suddenly she has appeared awakened to indignation, and a desire of vengeance on the destroyer of her child, which I could wish less violent.  She implored me, with almost frantic wildness, to obtain justice from the cruel villain—­accusing him by name, and bringing forward so many proofs, which the lethargy of grief had before concealed, that I cannot doubt for one moment who is the father of that poor babe—­the cruel, the heartless destroyer of innocence and life.”

“But is there no evidence but hers?  I wish there were, for Dame Williams is so weak and dull, she may easily be imposed upon,” observed Mrs. Hamilton, thoughtfully.  “It is indeed a tale of sorrow; one that I could wish, if it indeed be true, might not be published, for did it reach his father’s ears”—­

“It will break his heart, I know it will,” interrupted Ellen, with an uncontrolled burst of feeling.  “Oh, do not condemn him without further proofs,” she added, appealingly.

“Every inquiry I have made confirms the old dame’s story,” replied Mr. Hamilton, sadly.  “We know Myrvin’s life in college, before his change of rank, was one of reckless gaiety.  All say he was more often at Dame Williams’s cottage than at any other.  Had he been more attentive to his duties, we might have believed he sought to soothe by religion poor Mary’s sufferings, but we know such was not his wont.  Jefferies corroborates the old dame’s tale, bringing forward circumstances he had witnessed, too forcibly to doubt.  And does not his hasty resignation of a comfortable home, a promising living, evince his guilt more strongly than every other proof?  Why did he refuse to defend his conduct?  Was it not likely such a crime as this upon his conscience would occasion that restlessness we all perceived, that extreme haste to depart? he would not stay to see his victim die, or be charged with a child of sin.  There was a mystery in his sudden departure, but there is none now; it is all too clear.”