Hamilton entered the usual sitting-room of the
family, apparently much disturbed. Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen were engaged
in work, and Emmeline sat at a small table in the embrasure of one of
the deep gothic windows, silently yet busily employed it seemed in
drawing. She knew her father had gone that morning to the village, and
as usual felt uneasy and feverish, fearing, reasonably or unreasonably,
that on his return she would hear something unpleasant concerning
Arthur; as she this day marked the countenance of her father, her heart
throbbed, and her cheek, which had been flushed by the action of
stooping, paled even unto death.

"What mishap has chanced in the village, that you look so grave, my dear
love?" demanded his wife, playfully.

"I am perplexed in what matter to act, and grieved, deeply grieved, at
the intelligence I have learned; not only that my prejudice is
confirmed, but that the knowledge I have acquired concerning that
unhappy young man places me in a most awkward situation."

"You are not speaking very intelligibly, my dear husband, and therefore
I must guess what you mean; I fear it is young Myrvin of whom you
speak," said Mrs. Hamilton, her playfulness gone.

"They surely have not been again bringing him forward to his discredit?"
observed Ellen, earnestly. "The poor young man is far away; why will
they still endeavour to prejudice you and Mr. Howard against him?"

"I admire your charity, my dear girl, but, I am sorry to say, in this
case it is unworthily bestowed. There are facts now come to light which,
I fear, unpleasant as will be the task, render it my duty to write to
Lord Malvern. Arthur Myrvin is no fit companion for his son."

"His poor, poor father!" murmured Ellen, dropping her work, and looking
sorrowfully, yet inquiringly, in her uncle's face.

"But are they facts, Arthur--are they proved? for that there is unjust
prejudice against him in the village, I am pretty certain."

"They are so far proved, that, by applying them to him, a mystery in the
village is cleared up, and also his violent haste to quit our
neighbourhood. You remember Mary Brookes?"

"That poor girl who died, it was said, of such a rapid decline?
Perfectly well."

"It was not a decline, my dear Emmeline; would that it had been. She was
beautiful, innocent, in conversation and manner far above her station.
There are many to say she loved, and believed, in the fond trust of
devotion, all that the tempter said. She