“It need not be spoken.”

“Say not so, Miss Markland.  If, in any thing, you have misapprehended him—­”

“Go, sir!” And Fanny drew herself up to her full height, and pointed away with her finger.

“Mr. Lyon has ever loved you with the most passionate devotion,” said the stranger.  “In some degree he is responsible for the misfortune of your father; and now, at the first opportunity for doing so, he is ready to tender a recompense.  Partly for this purpose, and partly to bear to you the declaration of Mr. Lyon’s unwavering regard, am I here.”

“He has wronged, deeply wronged my father,” replied Fanny, something of the imperious tone and manner with which she had last spoken abating.  “If prepared to make restitution in any degree, the way can easily be opened.”

“Circumstances,” was answered, “conspired to place him in a false position, and make him the instrument of wrong to those for whom he would at any time have sacrificed largely instead of becoming the minister of evil.”

“What does he propose?” asked Fanny.

“To restore your father to his old position.  Woodbine Lodge can be purchased from the present owner.  It may become your home again.”

“It is well,” said Fanny.  “Let justice be done.”

She was now entirely self-possessed, bore herself firmly erect, and spoke without apparent emotion.  Standing with her back to the window, through which light came, her own face was in shadow, while that of her companion was clearly seen.

“Justice will be done,” replied the young man, slightly embarrassed by the replies of Fanny, the exact meaning of which he did not clearly perceive.

“Is that all you have to communicate?” said the young girl, seeing that he hesitated.

“Not all.”

“Say on, then.”

“There are conditions.”

“Ah!  Name them.”

“Mr. Lyon still loves you with an undying tenderness.”

Fanny waved her hand quickly, as if rejecting the affirmation, and slightly averted her head, but did not speak.

“His letters ceased because he was in no state to write; not because there was any change in his feelings toward you.  After the terrible disaster to the Company, for which he has been too sweepingly blamed, he could not write.”

“Where is he now?” inquired the maiden.

“I am not yet permitted to answer such a question.”

There came a pause.

“What shall I say to him from you?”

“Nothing!” was the firm reply.

“Nothing?  Think again, Miss Markland.”

“Yes; say to him, that the mirror which once reflected his image in my heart, is shattered forever.”

“Think of your father,” urged the stranger.

“Go, sir!” And Fanny again waved her hand for him to leave her.  “Your words are an offence to me.”

A form intercepted at this moment the light which came through one of the doors opening upon the portico, and Fanny stepped forward a pace or two.