“Is it true—­can it be true—­that you, offspring of my own sister; dear to me, cherished by me as my own child—­you have been the guilty one to appropriate, and conceal the appropriation of money, which has been a source of distress by its loss, and the suspicion thence proceeding, for the last seven weeks?—­that you could listen to your uncle’s words, absolving his whole household as incapable of a deed which was actual theft, and yet, by neither word nor sign, betray remorse or guilt?—­could behold the innocent suffering, the fearful misery of suspicion, loss of character, without the power of clearing himself, and stand calmly, heedlessly by—­only proving by your hardened and rebellious temper that all was not right within—­Ellen, can this be true?”

“Yes!” was the reply, but with such a fearful effort that her slight frame shook as with an ague:  “thank God that it is known!  I dared not bring down the punishment on myself; but I can bear it.”

“This is mere mockery, Ellen:  how dare I believe even this poor evidence of repentance, with the recollection of your past conduct?  What were the notes you found?”

Ellen named them.

“Where are they?—­This is but one, and the smallest.”

Ellen’s answer was scarcely audible.

“Used them—­and for what?”

There was no answer; neither then nor when Mrs. Hamilton sternly reiterated the question.  She then demanded:—­

“How long have they been in your possession?”

“Five or six weeks;” but the reply was so tremulous it carried no conviction with it.

“Since Robert told his story to your uncle, or before?”

“Before.”

“Then your last answer was a falsehood, Ellen:  it is full seven weeks since my husband addressed the household on the subject.  You could not have so miscounted time, with such a deed to date by.  Where did you find them?”

Ellen described the spot.

“And what business had you there?  You know that neither you nor your cousins are ever allowed to go that way to Mrs. Langford’s cottage, and more especially alone.  If you wanted to see her, why did you not go the usual way?  And when was this?—­you must remember the exact day.  Your memory is not in general so treacherous.”

Again Ellen was silent.

“Have you forgotten it?”

She crouched lower at her aunt’s feet, but the answer was audible—­“No.”

“Then answer me, Ellen, this moment, and distinctly:  for what purpose were you seeking Mrs. Langford’s cottage by that forbidden path, and when?”

“I wanted money, and I went to ask her to take my trinkets—­my watch, if it must be—­and dispose of them as I had read of others doing, as miserable as I was; and the wind blew the notes to my very hand, and I used them.  I was mad then; I have been mad since, I believe:  but I would have returned the whole amount to Robert if I could have but parted with my trinkets in time.”