In a single hour, Fanny’s mind had gained a degree of maturity, which, under the ordinary progression of her life, would not have come for years.  But for this, her young, pure heart would have yielded without a struggle.  No voice of warning would have mingled in her ears with the sweet voice of the wooer.  No string would have jarred harshly amid the harmonies of her life.  The lover who came to her with so many external blandishments—­who attracted her with so powerful a magnetism—­would have still looked all perfection in her eyes.  Now, the film was removed; and if she could not see all that lay hidden beneath a fair exterior, enough was visible to give the sad conviction that evil might be there.

Yet was Fanny by no means inclined to turn herself away from Mr. Lyon.  Too much power over her heart had already been acquired.  The ideal of the man had grown too suddenly into a most palpable image of beauty and perfection.  Earnestly did her heart plead for him.  Sad, even to tears, was it, at the bare thought of giving him up.  There was yet burning on her pure forehead the hot kiss he had left there a few hours before—­her hand still felt his thrilling touch—­his words of love were in her ears—­she still heard the impassioned tones in which he had uttered his parting “God bless you!”

Thus it was with the gentle-hearted girl, exposed, far too soon in life, to influences which stronger spirits than hers could hardly have resisted.

Midnight found Mrs. Markland wakeful and thoughtful.  She had observed something unusual about Fanny, and noted the fact of her early retirement, that evening, from the family.  Naturally enough, she connected this change in her daughter’s mind with the letter received from Mr. Lyon, and it showed her but too plainly that the stranger’s image was fixing itself surely in the young girl’s heart.  This conviction gave her pain rather than pleasure.  She, too, had felt that quick repulsion towards Mr. Lyon, at their first meeting, to which we have referred; and with her, no after acquaintance ever wholly removed the effect of a first experience like this.

Midnight, as we have said, found her wakeful and thoughtful.  The real cause of her husband’s absence was unknown to her; but, connecting itself, as it did, with Mr. Lyon,—­he had written her that certain business, which he had engaged to transact for Mr. Lyon, required his presence in New York,—­and following so soon upon his singularly restless and dissatisfied state of mind, the fact disquieted her.  The shadow of an approaching change was dimming the cheerful light of her spirit.