in the North, his hopes rose above his fears.  Mr. William, attended by a servant, rode forward to meet them; he desired Edmund to stay and receive them.  Edmund was under some difficulty with regard to his behaviour to the lovely Emma; a thousand times his heart rose to his lips, as often he suppressed his emotions; they both sighed frequently, said little, thought much, and wished for the event.  Master Walter was too young to partake of their anxieties, but he wished for the arrival of his father to end them.

Mr. William’s impatience spurred him on to meet his father; as soon as he saw him, he rode up directly to him.

“My dear father, you are welcome home!” said he.

“I think not, sir,” said the Baron, and looked serious.

“Why so, my lord?” said William.

“Because it is no longer mine, but another man’s home,” answered he, “and I must receive my welcome from him.”

“Meaning Edmund?” said William.

“Whom else can it be?”

“Ah, my Lord! he is your creature, your servant; he puts his fate into your hands, and will submit to your pleasure in all things!”

“Why comes he not to meet us?” said the Baron.

“His fears prevent him,” said William; “but speak the word, and I will fetch him.”

“No,” said the Baron, “we will wait on him.”

William looked confused.

“Is Edmund so unfortunate,” said he, “as to have incurred your displeasure?”

Sir Philip Harclay advanced, and laid his hand on William’s saddle.

“Generous impatience! noble youth! “said he; “look round you, and see if you can discover in this company one enemy of your friend!  Leave to your excellent father the time and manner of explaining himself; he only can do justice to his own sentiments.”

The Baron smiled on Sir Philip; William’s countenance cleared up; they went forward, and soon arrived at the Castle of Lovel.

Edmund was walking to and fro in the hall, when he heard the horn that announced their arrival; his emotions were so great that he could hardly support them.  The Baron and Sir Philip entered the hall hand in hand; Edmund threw himself at their feet, and embraced their knees, but could not utter a word.  They raised him between them, and strove to encourage him; but he threw himself into the arms of Sir Philip Harclay, deprived of strength, and almost of life.  They supported him to a seat, where he recovered by degrees, but had no power to speak his feelings; he looked up to his benefactors in the most affecting manner, he laid his hand upon his bosom, but was still silent.

“Compose yourself, my dear son,” said Sir Philip; “you are in the arms of your best friends.  Look up to the happiness that awaits you—­ enjoy the blessings that Heaven sends you—­lift up your heart in gratitude to the Creator, and think left of what you owe to the creature!  You will have time enough to pay us your acknowledgments hereafter.”