“All our natural affections,” resumed Mrs. Markland, after a few moments were given to self-control, “have simple regard to ourselves; and their indulgence never brings the promised happiness.  This is why a wise and good Creator permits our natural desires to be so often thwarted.  In this there is mercy, and not unkindness; for the fruition of these desires would often be most exquisite misery.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Fanny, starting up at this moment, and leaning close to the window.  The sound that had fallen upon her ear had also reached the ears of the mother.

“Oh! it’s father!” fell almost wildly from the daughter’s lips, and she sprang out into the hall, and forth to meet him in the drenching rain.  Mrs. Markland could not rise, but sat, nerveless, until the husband entered the room.

“Oh, Edward!  Edward!” she then exclaimed, rising, and staggering forward to meet him.  “Thank our kind Father in heaven that you are with us again!” And her head sunk upon his bosom, and she felt his embracing arms drawn tightly around her.  How exquisitely happy she was for the moment!  But she was aroused by the exclamation of Fanny:—­

“Oh, father!  How pale you look!”

Mrs. Markland raised herself quickly, and gazed into her husband’s face.  What a fearful change was there!  He was pale and haggard; and in his bloodshot eyes she read a volume of wretchedness.

“Oh, Edward! what has happened?” she asked, eagerly and tenderly.

“More than I dare tell you!” he replied, in a voice full of despair.

“Perhaps I can divine the worst.”

Markland had turned his face partly away, that he might conceal its expression.  But the unexpected tone in which this sentence was uttered caused him to look back quickly.  There was no foreboding fear in the countenance of his wife.  She had spoken firmly—­almost cheerfully.

“The worst?  Dear Agnes!” he said, with deep anguish in his voice.  “It has not entered into your imagination to conceive the worst!”

“All is lost!” she answered, calmly.

“All,” he replied, “but honour, and a heart yet brave enough and strong enough to battle with the world for the sake of its beloved ones.”

Mrs. Markland hid her face on the breast of her husband, and stood, for some minutes, silent.  Fanny approached her father, and laid her head against him.

“All this does not appal me,” said Mrs. Markland, and she looked up and smiled faintly through tears that could not be repressed.

“Oh, Agnes!  Agnes! can you bear the thought of being driven out from this Eden?”

“Its beauty has already faded,” was the quiet answer.  “If it is ours no longer, we must seek another home.  And home, you know, dear Edward, is where the heart is, and the loved ones dwell.”

But not so calmly could Fanny bear this announcement.  She had tried hard, for her father’s sake, to repress her feelings; but now they gave way into hysterical weeping.  Far beyond his words her thoughts leaped, and already bitter self-reproaches had begun.  Had she at once informed him of Mr. Lyon’s return, singular interview, and injunction of secrecy, all these appalling consequences might have been saved.  In an instant this flashed upon her mind, and the conviction overwhelmed her.