o learn distrust; it is a dark, a dreadful, but a useful lesson."

"Methinks one has not need to study how to be wretched; suspicion has to
me ever seemed the school of misery."

The baronet made no reply to this observation, but soon after abruptly
exclaimed,--

"He will not come again, I suppose."

Constance did not know.

He then fancied he could walk a little; and, pressing to his side the
arm on which he leaned, said,--

"Ah, my child! a willing arm is more delightful to a parent than a
strong one. Wilt always love thy father, Constance?"

"My dear father, do you doubt it?"

"No, my child; but suppose that any circumstance should make me poor?"

"You will find what a nice waiting-maid your daughter is."

"Suppose I was dishonoured?"

"Public honour is given and taken by a breath, and is therefore of
little worth; but the private and more noble honour is in our own
keeping: my father keeps it safely."

"But suppose that I _deserved_ the ill word of all mankind?"

"My dear father, why trouble yourself or me with such a thought?--if it
so happened, you would still be my parent; but such an event is
impossible."

The baronet sighed, as if in pain. Constance looked anxiously into his
face, and noted that a cold and clammy perspiration stood thickly on his
brow.

"You had better sit down, dear sir."

"No, my child, I shall be better for a little air; let us go into the
library."

As they entered the room, a scene of solemn drollery presented itself,
that a humorous painter might well desire to portray. Kneeling on a
high-backed and curiously-carved chair, was seen the lean, lanky figure
of Fleetword, placed within a foot of the sofa, on which, in the most
uneasy manner and discontented attitude, sat the Master of Burrell. The
preacher had so turned the chair that he leaned over it, pulpit-fashion;
holding his small pocket Bible in his hand, he declaimed to his single
auditor with as much zeal and energy as if he were addressing the Lord
Protector and his court. The effect of the whole was heightened by the
laughing face and animated figure of Lady Frances Cromwell,
half-concealed behind an Indian skreen, from which she was, unperceived,
enjoying the captivity of Burrell, whom, in her half-playful,
half-serious moods, she invariably denominated "the false black knight."
Fleetword, inwardly rejoicing at the increase of his congregation, of
whose presence, however, he deemed it wisdom to appear ignoran