“Home will no longer be like home, dear father, when you are far absent,” she said to him, pleadingly, a few days before the appointed time for departure had come.  “Do not go away.”

“It is no desire to leave home that prompts the journey, Fanny, love,” he answered, drawing his arm around her and pressing her closely to his side.  “At the call of duty, none of us should hesitate to obey.”

“Duty, father?” Fanny did not comprehend the meaning of his words.

“It is the duty of all men to thoroughly comprehend what they are doing, and to see that their business is well conducted at every point.”

“I did not before understand that you had business in that distant country,” said Fanny.

“I am largely interested there,” replied Mr. Markland, speaking as though the admission to her was half-extorted.

“Not with Mr. Lyon, I hope?” said Fanny, quickly and earnestly.  It was the first time she had mentioned his name since the day his cold allusion to her had nearly palsied her heart.

“Why not with Mr. Lyon, my child?  Do you know any thing in regard to him that would make such a connection perilous to my interest?” Mr. Markland looked earnestly into the face of his daughter.  Her eyes did not fall from his, but grew brighter, and her person became more erect.  There was something of indignant surprise in the expression of her countenance.

“Do you know any thing in regard to him that would make the connection perilous to my interest?” repeated Mr. Markland.

“Will that man be true to the father, who is false to his child?” said Fanny, in a deep, hoarse voice.

He looked long and silently into her face, his mind bewildered by the searching interrogatory.

“False to you, Fanny!” he at length said, in a confused way.  “Has he been false to you?”

“Oh, father! father!  And is it from you this question comes?” exclaimed Fanny, clasping her hands together and then pressing them tightly against her bosom.

“He spoke of you in his letter with great kindness,” said Mr. Markland.  “I know that he has been deeply absorbed in a perplexing business; and this may be the reason why he has not written.”

“Father,”—­Fanny’s words were uttered slowly and impressively—­“if you are in any manner involved in business with Mr. Lyon—­if you have any thing at stake through confidence in him—­get free from the connection as early as possible.  He is no true man.  With the fascinating qualities of the serpent, he has also the power to sting.”

“I fear, my daughter,” said Mr. Markland, “that too great a revulsion has taken place in your feelings toward him; that wounded pride is becoming unduly active.”

“Pride!” ejaculated Fanny—­and her face, that had flushed, grew pale again—­“pride!  Oh, father! how sadly you misjudge your child!  No—­no.  I was for months in the blinding mazes of a delicious dream; but I am awake now—­fully awake, and older—­how much older it makes me shudder to think—­than I was when lulled into slumber by melodies so new, and wild, and sweet, that it seemed as if I had entered another state of existence.  Yes, father, I am awake now; startled suddenly from visions of joy and beauty into icy realities, like thousands of other dreamers around me.  Pride?  Oh, my father!”