Sybil saw daily less and less of her father.

It was on the morning after the day that Hatton had made his first and
unlooked-for visit in Smith's Square, some of the delegates who had
caught the rumour of the resignation of the whigs had called early on
Gerard, and he had soon after left the house in their company; and Sybil
was alone. The strange incidents of the preceding day were revolving
in her mind, as her eye wandered vaguely over her book. The presence of
that Hatton who had so often and in such different scenes occupied
their conversation; the re-appearance of that stranger, whose unexpected
entrance into their little world had eighteen months ago so often lent
interest and pleasure to their life--these were materials for pensive
sentiment. Mr Franklin had left some gracious memories with Sybil; the
natural legacy of one so refined, intelligent, and gentle, whose temper
seemed never ruffled, and who evidently so sincerely relished their
society. Mowedale rose before her in all the golden beauty of its
autumnal hour; their wild rambles and hearty greetings and earnest
converse, when her father returned from his daily duties and his eye
kindled with pleasure as the accustomed knock announced the arrival of
his almost daily companion. In spite of the excitement of the passing
moment, its high hopes and glorious aspirations, and visions perchance
of greatness and of power, the eye of Sybil was dimmed with emotion as
she recalled that innocent and tranquil dream.

Her father had heard from Franklin after his departure more than once;
but his letters, though abounding in frank expressions of deep
interest in the welfare of Gerard and his daughter, were in some degree
constrained: a kind of reserve seemed to envelope him; they never
learnt anything of his life and duties: he seemed sometimes as it were
meditating a departure from his country. There was undoubtedly about him
something mysterious and unsatisfactory. Morley was of opinion that he
was a spy; Gerard, less suspicious, ultimately concluded that he was
harassed by his creditors, and when at Mowedale was probably hiding from
them.

And now the mystery was at length dissolved. And what an explanation!
A Norman, a noble, an oppressor of the people, a plunderer of the
church--all the characters and capacities that Sybil had been bred up to
look upon with fear and aversion, and to recognise as the authors of the
degradation of her race.

Sybil sighed: the do