“My ever dear Fanny:—­Since our meeting at the fountain, I cannot say to you all that I would say in any letter under care to your father, and so I entrust this to a faithful messenger, who will see that it reaches your hands.  I am now far to the South again, in prosecution of most important business, the safe progress of which would be interrupted, and the whole large result endangered, were your father to know of my visit at Woodbine Lodge at a time when he thought me hundreds of miles distant.  So, for his sake, as well as my own, be discreet for a brief period.  I will not long permit this burden of secrecy to lie upon your dear young heart—­oh no!  I could not be so unjust to you.  Your truest, best, wisest counsellor is your mother, and she should know all that is in your heart.  Keep your secret only for a little while, and then I will put you in full liberty to speak of all that has just occurred.  None will approve your discretion more than your parents, I know, when all the grave reasons for this concealment are disclosed.  Dear Fanny! how ever-present to me you are.  It seems, often, as if you were moving by my side.  In lonely moments, how like far off, sweet music, comes your voice stealing into my heart.  Beloved one!—­”

A sudden sound of approaching feet caused Fanny to crumple the letter, scarcely half read, in her hand, and thrust it into her bosom.  Turning towards the point from whence the noise came, she perceived the form of her mother, who was only a few paces distant.  Mrs. Markland saw the letter in Fanny’s hand, and also saw the hasty motion of concealment.  When she entered the summer-house where her daughter, who had risen up hurriedly, stood in the attitude of one suddenly alarmed, she marked with deep concern the agitated play of her countenance, and the half-guilty aversion of her eyes.

“My dear child!” she said, in a low, serious voice, as she laid a hand upon her, “what am I to understand by the singular change that has passed over you, and particularly by the strong disturbance of this moment?  Why are you here alone?  And why are you so startled at your mother’s appearance?”

Fanny only bowed her face upon her mother’s bosom, and, sobbed violently.

As the wildness of her emotion subsided, Mrs. Markland said:—­

“Speak freely to your best friend, my darling child!  Hide nothing from one who loves you better than any human heart can love you.”

But Fanny answered not, except by a fresh gush of tears.

“Have you nothing to confide to your mother?” inquired Mrs. Markland in as calm a voice as she could assume, after waiting long enough for the heart of her daughter to beat with a more even stroke.

“Nothing,” was answered in a voice as calm as that in which the interrogation was asked.

“Nothing, Fanny?  Oh, my child!  Do not deceive your mother!”

Fanny drew her slight form up into something of a proud attitude, and stood for an instant looking at her mother almost defiantly.  But this was only for an instant.  For scarcely was the position assumed, ere she had flung herself forward, again sobbing violently, into her arms.