“I did not intend to speak of my own experience; but the sufferings of poor Miss Dumont call to my mind the remembrance of similar feelings.”

“I presume the company are not desirous of hearing the story of an elopement,” said Dalhousie, with a smile.

“Nor I to relate one.  The pure devotion of Miss Dumont to the memory of her father recalls the affection, the fond indulgence, of my own father.  I have not, as she has, the consciousness of having never wilfully abused his confidence.”

“If you have erred, madam,” said Mr. Faxon, “your father still lives, does he not?  Perhaps it is not yet too late to atone for the fault.”

“Alas!  I know not whether he is living or not.  I wrote to him several times, but never received an answer.”

“Who was your father, madam?” said Mr. Faxon, with much sympathy in the tones of his voice.

“I dread even to mention the name I bore in the innocent days of childhood.”

“Fie, Delia!” said Dalhousie, with a pleasant laugh, “what have you done to sink yourself so far in your own estimation?  You and your father differed as to the propriety of our marriage; to you, as a true woman, your course was plain.  This is the height and depth of your monstrous sin.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement that a gentleman waited to see Mr. Faxon.

The good clergyman had a habit of promptness in answering all calls upon him.  This custom had been acquired by the reflection that a poor dying mortal might wait his blessing, ere he departed on his endless journey; that, sometimes, a moment’s delay could never be atoned for; therefore he rose on the instant, and hastened to the parlor, where the visitor waited.

“Ah! is it possible—­Captain Carroll!” said he, as he grasped Henry’s hand; “I am glad to see you.  But how pale and thin you look!”

“Good reason for it, my dear sir.  I was on board of the Chalmetta.”

“Were you, indeed!  Thank God, you escaped with life!  Were you much injured?”

“I was, but, thanks to the care of a good physician, I am nearly restored again.”

“But our poor lady—­Miss Dumont—­have you any tidings of her?  Report said she was lost in the catastrophe.”

“She is safe, though, unfortunately, at present in bad hands;” and Henry related to the astonished minister the events of Emily’s history since her departure from Bellevue, not concealing even the details of his present relations with her.

“And now, my dear sir,” said he, rising to depart, “the crisis has come.  Dr. Vaudelier waits close by, and we are ready to witness the denouement of this climax of plots.  It is already time for Jerome and Emily to arrive, and we desire your immediate presence at the mansion-house.”

“I will attend you.  But I have in the house several friends of Miss Dumont—­”

“Bring them all with you,” interrupted Henry, looking at his watch.  “The more witnesses the better, especially if they be friends.”