The moment Fanny was beyond the observation of her parents, wings seemed added to her feet, and she almost flew to her chamber.

“Bless the child!  What’s the matter?  She looks frightened to death!” exclaimed Aunt Grace, who met her on the way, and she followed her quickly.  But, when she tried to open the chamber door, she found it locked within.

“Fanny!  Fanny, child!” She rattled at the lock, as she thus called the name of her niece.

But no sound came from within.

“Fanny!  Fanny!”

The sound of feet was on the floor.

“Fanny!”

“What is wanted, aunt?” said a low, husky voice, close to the door within.  It did not seem like the voice of Fanny.

“I wish to see you for a few moments.  Let me in.”

“Not now, Aunt Grace.  I want to be alone,” was answered, in the same altered voice.

“Mercy on us!” sighed Aunt Grace, as she turned, disappointed and troubled, from the door of her niece’s chamber.  “What is coming over the house? and what ails the child?  That dreadful Mr. Lyon is at the bottom of all this.  Oh!  I wish the ship that brought him over had sunk in the middle of the ocean.  I knew he would bring trouble, the moment my eyes rested upon him; and it is here quicker than I expected.”

Fanny, oh entering her room, had fallen, half-fainting, across her bed.  It required a strong effort to arouse herself and sufficiently command her voice to answer the call of her aunt and refuse to admit her.  As soon as the latter had gone away, she staggered back to her bed, and again threw herself upon it, powerless, for the time, in mind as well as body.  Never, before, had she concealed anything from her parents—­never acted falsely, or with even a shadow of duplicity.  Into what a fearful temptation had she suddenly fallen; and what a weight of self-condemnation, mingled with doubt and fear, pressed upon her heart.  At the moment when she was about revealing all to her father, and thus ending his doubts, her purpose was checked by the unlooked-for announcement that a person so nearly resembling Mr. Lyon, as even for a moment to deceive her father, was in the neighbourhood, checked the words that were rising to her lips, and sealed them, for the time, in silence.  To escape from the presence of her parents was her next impulse, and she obeyed it.

Fully half an hour passed before calmness was restored to the mind of Fanny, and she could think with any degree of clearness.  From childhood, up to this period of her life, her mother had been her wise counsellor, her loving friend, her gentle monitor.  She had leaned upon her in full confidence—­had clung to her in weakness, as the vine to its strong support.  And now, when she most needed her counsel, she shrunk from her, and feared to divulge the secret that was burning painfully into her heart.  And yet, she did not purpose to keep her secret; for that, her reason and filial love both told her, was wrong; while all the time a low, sweet, almost sad voice, seemed murmuring in her ear—­“Go to your mother!”