“I perceive well, sister, what you mean.  Rather than remain here, and make an attempt to defy Sir Francis Varney, you would fly from him, and leave him undisputed master of the field.”

“I would—­I would.”

“Heaven forbid that I or any one should thwart you.  You know well, Flora, how dear you are to me; you know well that your happiness has ever been to us all a matter which has assumed the most important of shapes, as regarded our general domestic policy.  It is not, therefore, likely now, dear sister, that we should thwart you in your wish to remove from here.”

“I know, Henry, all you would say,” remarked Flora, as a tear started to her eyes.  “I know well all you think, and, in your love for me, I likewise know well I rely for ever.  You are attached to this place, as, indeed, we all are, by a thousand happy and pleasant associations; but listen to me further, Henry, I do not wish to wander far.”

“Not far, Flora?”

“No.  Do I not still cling to a hope that Charles may yet appear? and if he do so, it will assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows is native and most dear to us all.”

“True.”

“Then do I wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity, of our leaving the Hall.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And yet not go far.  In the neighbouring town, for example, surely we might find some means of living entirely free from remark or observation as to who or what we were.”

“That, sister, I doubt.  If you seek for that species of solitude which you contemplate, it is only to be found in a desert.”

“A desert?”

“Yes; or in a large city.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay, Flora; you may well believe me, that it is so.  In a small community you can have no possible chance of evading an amount of scrutiny which would very soon pierce through any disguise you could by any possibility assume.”

“Then there is no resource.  We must go far.”

“Nay, I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a general principle, what I have said I know to be true, yet some more special circumstance may arise that may point a course that, while it enables us, for Charles Holland’s sake, to remain in this immediate neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire.”

“Dear—­dear brother,” said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry’s neck, “you speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in Charles’s faithfulness and truth.”

“As Heaven is my judge, I do.”

“A thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance.  I know him too well to doubt, for one moment, his faith.  Oh, brother! could he—­could Charles Holland, the soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulse that can adorn humanity—­could he have written those letters?  No, no! perish the thought!”

“It has perished.”

“Thank God!”

“I only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the concurrence of a number of circumstances, I could ever have suspected him.”