“Then your representations were the origin of Eugene’s interest in Arthur?” said Mrs. Hamilton, inquiringly.

Emmeline answered in the affirmative.

“And did you answer his letter?”

“No, mamma; it was enough for me and for him, too, his wishes were granted.  I would not indulge my secret wish to do so.  Neither you nor papa, nor indeed any of my family, knew what had passed between us.  Determined as I was to struggle for the conquest of myself, I did not imagine in keeping that secret I was acting undutifully; but had I written to him, or cherished, as my weak fondness bade me do, his—­his—­why should I hide it—­his precious letter, my conscience would have added its pangs to the sufferings already mine.  While that was free and light, I could still meet your look and smile, and return your kiss, however I might feel my heart was breaking; but if I had so deceived you, so disregarded my duty, as to enter into a correspondence with him, unknown to you, oh, the comfort of your love would have flown from me for ever.”

“And had my Emmeline indeed sufficient resolution to destroy that letter?” demanded Mrs. Hamilton, surprise mingling with the admiration and esteem which, though felt by a mother for a child, might well be pardoned.

“It was my duty, mother, and I did it,” replied Emmeline, with a simplicity that filled the eyes of her mother with tears.  “Could I indeed forget those principles of integrity which, from my earliest infancy, you have so carefully instilled?”

Mrs. Hamilton clasped her to her bosom, and imprinted kisses of the fondest affection on her colourless and burning forehead.

“Well, indeed, are my cares repaid,” she exclaimed.  “Oh, that my affection could soothe your sorrows as sweetly as your gentle yet unwavering adherence to filial love and duty have comforted me.  Will you, for my sake, my own love, continue these painful yet virtuous efforts at self-conquest, which you commenced merely from a sense of duty?  Will you not glad your mother’s heart and let me have the comfort of beholding you once more my own cheerful, happy Emmeline?”

“I will try,” murmured Emmeline, struggling to smile; but oh, it was so unlike herself, so lustreless and faint, that Mrs. Hamilton hastily turned away to hide emotion.  The dressing-bell at that instant sounded, and Emmeline looked an entreaty to which her lips appeared unwilling to give words.  Her mother understood it.

“I will not ask you to join us at dinner, love.  Do not look so beseechingly, you will recover this agitation sooner and better alone; and so much confidence have you compelled me to feel in you,” she added, trying to smile and speak playfully, “that I will not ask you to make an exertion to which you do not feel equal, even if you wish to be alone the whole evening.  I know my Emmeline’s solitary moments will not be spent in vain repinings.”

“You taught me whom to seek for comfort and relief in my childish sorrows, and I will not, I do not forget that lesson now, mother,” answered Emmeline, faintly yet expressively.  “Let me be alone, indeed, a few hours, and if I can but conquer this feeling of exhaustion, I will join you at tea.”