A slight shade of disappointment crossed the bright young face of Fanny Markland—­not unobserved by her mother.

“It would seem rude, were I to take no notice of the letter whatever,” said she, after reflecting a moment.

“Your father can acknowledge the receipt for you, when he writes to Mr. Lyon.”

“But would that do?” asked Fanny, in evident doubt.

“O yes, and is, in my view, the only right course.  We know but little, if any thing, about Mr. Lyon.  If he should not be a true man, there is no telling how much you might suffer in the estimation of right-minded people, by his representation that you were in correspondence with him.  A young girl can never be too guarded, on this point.  If Mr. Lyon is a man worthy of your respect, he will be disappointed in you, if he receive an answer to his letter, under your own hand.”

“Why, mother?  Does he not say that he knows of nothing that would give him more pleasure than to receive an answer from me?” Fanny spoke with animation.

“True, my child, and that part of his letter I like least of all.”

“Why so?” inquired the daughter.

“Have you not gathered the answer to your own question from what I have already said?  A true man, who had a genuine respect for a young lady, would not desire, on so slight an acquaintance, to draw her into a correspondence; therefore the fact that Mr. Lyon half invites you to a correspondence, causes doubts to arise in my mind.  His sending you a letter at all, when he is yet to us almost an entire stranger, I cannot but regard as a breach of the hospitalities extended to him.”

“Is not that a harsh judgment?” said Fanny, a warmer hue mantling her face.

“Reflect calmly, my child, and you will not think so.”

“Then I ought not to answer this letter?” said Fanny, after musing for some time.

“Let your father, in one of his letters, acknowledge the receipt for you.  If Mr. Lyon be a true man, he will respect you the more.”

Not entirely satisfied, though she gave no intimation of this, Fanny returned to the seclusion of her own room, to muse on so unexpected a circumstance; and as she mused, the beating of her heart grew quicker.  Again she read the letter from Mr. Lyon, and again and again conned it over, until every sentence was imprinted on her memory.  She did not reject the view taken by her mother; nay, she even tried to make it her own; but, for all this, not the shadow of a doubt touching Mr. Lyon could find a place in her thoughts.  Before her mental vision he stood, the very type of noble manhood.

CHAPTER VIII.

What an error had been committed!  How painfully was this realized by Mrs. Markland.  How often had she looked forward, with a vague feeling of anxiety, to the time, yet far distant—­she had believed—­when the heart-strings of her daughter would tremble in musical response to the low-breathed voice of love—­and now that time had come.  Alas! that it had come so soon—­ere thought and perception had gained matured strength and wise discrimination.  The voice of the charmer was in her ears, and she was leaning to hearken.