“Do not say so, my own love; this it but the language of despondency, now too naturally your own; but permit it not to gain too much ascendency, dearest.  Where is my Emmeline’s firm, devoted faith in that merciful Father, who for so many years has gilded her lot with such unchecked happiness.  Darker clouds are now indeed for a time around you, but His blessing will remove them, love; trust still in Him.”

Emmeline’s convulsive sobs were somewhat checked; the fond and gentle tones of sympathy had their effect on one to whom affection never pleaded in vain.

“And why have you so carefully concealed the cause of the sufferings that were so clearly visible, my Emmeline?” continued her mother, tenderly.  “Could that fear which you once avowed in a letter to Mary, have mingled in your affection for me?  Could fear, indeed, have kept you silent?  Can your too vivid fancy have bid you imagine I should reproach you, or refuse my sympathy in this sad trial?  Your perseverance in active employments, your strivings for cheerfulness, all must, indeed, confirm your assertion, that you have not encouraged weakening emotions.  I believe you, my own, and I believe, too, my Emmeline did not give young Myrvin encouragement.  Look up, love, and tell me that you do not fear your mother—­that you do not deem her harsh.”

“Harsh? oh, no, no!” murmured the poor girl, still clinging to her neck, as if she feared something would part them.  “It is I who am capricious, fanciful, miserable:  oh, do not heed my incoherent words.  Mother, dearest mother, oh, let me but feel that you still love me, and I will teach my heart to be satisfied with that.”

“But if indeed I am not harsh, tell me all, my Emmeline—­tell me when you were first aware you loved Arthur Myrvin; all that has passed between you.  I promise you I will not add to your suffering on his account by reproaches.  Confide in the affection of your mother, and this trial will not be so hard to bear.”

Struggling to obtain composure and voice, Emmeline obeyed, and faithfully repeated every circumstance connected with her and Arthur, with which our readers are well acquainted; touching lightly, indeed, on their parting interview, which Mrs. Hamilton easily perceived could not be recalled even now, though some months had passed, without a renewal of the distress it had caused.  Her recital almost unconsciously exalted the character of Arthur in the mind of Mrs. Hamilton, which was too generous and kind to remain untouched by conduct so honourable, forbearing, and praiseworthy.

“Do not weep any more for the cruel charges against him, my love,” she said, with soothing tenderness, as Emmeline’s half-checked tears burst forth again as she spoke of the agony she in secret endured, when in her presence his character was traduced.  “Your father will now leave no means untried to discover whether indeed they are true or false.  Insinuations and reports have