self. This
trifling affair, it seems, has made Fanny very unhappy. I am really
sorry. But it is over now, and I trust her spirits will rise again.
You understand me fully, and can easily see why I might naturally
fall into this trifling error.

"I wrote you yesterday, and hope you acted upon my suggestion. I
proceed South in an hour. Every thing looks bright."

CHAPTER XXII.

"IT must be done this evening, Fanny," said Mrs. Markland, firmly.
"The week has expired."

"Wait until to-morrow, dear mother," was urged in a manner that was
almost imploring.

"My promise was for one week. Even against my own clear convictions
of right, have I kept it. This evening, your father must know all."

Fanny buried her face, in her hands and wept violently. The trial
and conflict of that week were, to Mrs. Markland, the severest,
perhaps, of her whole life. Never before had her mind been in so
confused a state; never had the way of duty seemed so difficult to
find. A promise she felt to be a sacred thing; and this feeling had
constrained her, even in the face of most powerful considerations,
to remain true to her word. But now, she no longer doubted or
hesitated; and she was counting the hours that must elapse before
her husband's return from the city, eager to unburden her heart to
him.

"There is hardly time," said Fanny, "for a letter to arrive from Mr.
Lyon."

"I cannot help it, my child. Any further delay on my part would be
criminal. Evil, past all remedy, may have already been done."

"I only asked for time, that Mr. Lyon might have an opportunity to
write to father, and explain every thing himself."

"Probably your father has heard from him to-day. If so, well; but,
if not, I shall certainly bring the matter to his knowledge."

There was something so decisive about Mrs. Markland, that Fanny
ceased all further attempts to influence her, and passively awaited
the issue.

The sun had only a few degrees to make ere passing from sight behind
the western mountains. It was the usual time for Mr. Markland's
return from the city, and most anxiously was his appearing looked
for. But the sun went down, and the twilight threw its veil over
wood and valley, and still his coming was delayed. He had gone in by
railroad, and not by private conveyance as usual. The latest train
had swept shrieking past, full half an hour, when Mrs. Markland
turned sadly from the portico, in which she had for a long time been
stationed,