“It is true enough that he ought not to have left her to herself,” said the Major.

“You making excuses for her after the diabolical plot of to-day?” said Mr. Belamour; “I could forgive her all but that letter to you.”

“My Lady loves her will,” quoted the Major; “it amounts to insanity in some women, I believe.”

“So I might say does men’s infatuation towards women like her,” muttered Mr. Belamour.

By this time Aurelia had finished her meal, and Betty was anxious to carry her off without any more excitement, for she was still drowsy and confused.  She bade her father good night, asking his blessing as of old, but when Mr. Belamour kissed her hand and repeated the good night, she said, “Sir, I ought to have trusted you; I am so sorry.”

“It is all well now, my child,” he said, soothingly, understanding Betty’s wish; “Sleep, and we will talk it over.”

So the happy sisters once more slept in each other’s arms, till in the early summer morning Betty heard the whole story from Aurelia, now fully herself, though she slumbered again after all was poured into her sister’s bosom.

Betty had sympathised step by step, and felt even more strongly than Harriet that the situation had been intolerable for womanhood, and that only Aurelia’s childishness could have endured it so long.  Only the eldest sister held that it would have been right and honourable to have spoken before flashing out the flame; but when, with many tears of contrition, Aurelia owned that she had long thought so, and longed to confess it, what could the motherly sister do but kiss the tears away, and rejoice that the penance was over which had been borne with such constancy and self-devotion.

Then Betty rose quietly, and after giving thanks on her knees that the gentle spirit had passed through all unscathed, untainted with even the perception of evil, she applied herself to the adaptation of one of her morning caps to her poor shorn lamb’s head.  Nor did Aurelia wake again till her father came to the door to make sure that all was well with his recovered treasure, and to say that Loveday would recover for her the box of clothes, which old Madge had hidden.

Loveday had gone back to her mistress, who either had not discovered her betrayal, or, as things had turned out, could not resent it.

So, fresh and blooming, Aurelia came out into the sitting-room, whence her father held out his arms to her.  He would have her all to himself for a little while, since even Eugene was gone to his daily delight, the seeing the changing of the guard.

“And now, my child, tell me,” he said, when he had heard a little of her feelings through these adventures, “what would you have me do?  Remember, such a wedding as yours goes for nothing, and you are still free to choose either or neither of your swains.”

“Oh, papa!” in a remonstrating tone.

“You were willing to wed your old hermit?”