Mrs. Cameron was much interested in Emmeline’s narrative, and asked if they were not soon to return to England.

“They may have already arrived,” replied Emmeline.  “Florence wrote me a fortnight ago she was counting the days till their return.  I sent a letter, apparently from her, this morning to Moorlands for Ellen, as I am not quite sure whether she will return home this evening or not, and perhaps that contains the intelligence.  His mother and sisters will be overjoyed to have him once more with them, after the dangers he has passed.”

“Has Mr. Myrvin any family?”

“Only his father, a truly good, kind, old man, the rector of Llangwillan.”

“And are you not desirous to see this admirable young man, this devoted preceptor, my dear Emmeline?” said Mrs. Cameron, smiling.  “Will he not be an excellent hero of romance?”

Emmeline answered, that as she already knew him, she could not throw around him the halo of imagination; she was content to admire his character as it was, without decking him in other charms.  Their further conversation turned upon other and indifferent subjects till Mrs. Cameron departed.

The death of Lady Helen and the misconduct of her son had cast such deep gloom over Moorlands, that not only Emmeline, but both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton feared Grahame would never arouse himself from the moody apathy into which he had fallen.  He felt disgrace had fallen on his name, a stain never to be erased; that all men would shun the father of one so publicly dishonoured.  The extent of Cecil’s conduct was scarcely known even to his father; but that he had used dishonest measures at the gambling table to discharge enormous debts; that he had behaved insolently to his superior officers; that it required great interest to prevent a much harsher sentence than had been his punishment—­these facts were known all over England.  The previously unsullied name of Grahame was now synonymous with infamy; and it was even supposed Cecil would never show his face in England again.  Mr. Grahame shrunk in misery from encountering the glance even of his friends; he felt as if he too shared the disgrace of his son, he and his young, his beautiful Lilla; she whom he had anticipated, with so much pleasure, introducing among his friends, she was doomed to share with him the solitude, which he declared was the only fit abode of ignominy; and even to her his manner was wayward and uncertain—­at times almost painfully fond, at others equally stern and harsh.  Lilla’s character was changed; she struggled to bear with him, unrepiningly, dutifully, conscious that the eye of her God was upon her, however her father might appear insensible to her affection.

Even the society of Mr. Howard and Mr. Hamilton was irksome; their efforts to rouse and cheer him were unavailing, and they could only hope time would achieve that for which friendship was inadequate.