struggle, praying that she might be
enlightened as to what she ought to do; praying that she might die rather
than become the wife of Stephen Whitelaw.

When she and her father met at breakfast in the dull gray January
morning, his aspect was even darker than it had been on the previous
night; but he did not ask her if she had arrived at any conclusion. He
took his meal in sullen silence, and left her without a word.

They met again a little before noon, at which hour it was Mr. Carley's
habit to consume a solid luncheon. He took his seat in the same gloomy
silence that he had preserved at breakfast-time, but flung an open letter
across the table towards his daughter.

"Am I to read this?" she asked gently.

"Yes, read it, and see what I've got to look to."

The letter was from Sir David Forster; an angry one, revealing strong
suspicions of his agent's dishonesty, and announcing that he should be at
the Grange on the fifth of the month, to make a close investigation of
all matters connected with the bailiff's administration. It was a letter
that gave little hope of mercy, and Ellen Carley felt that it was so. She
saw that there were no two sides to the question: she must save her
father by the utter sacrifice of her own feelings, or suffer him to
perish.

She sat for some minutes in silence, with Sir David's letter in her hand,
staring blankly at the lines in a kind of stupor; while her father ate
cold roast-beef and pickled-cabbage--she wondered how he could eat at
such a time--looking up at her furtively every now and then.

At last she laid down the letter, and lifted her eyes to his face. A
deadly whiteness and despair had come over the bright soubrette beauty,
and even William Carley's hard nature was moved a little by the altered
expression of his daughter's countenance.

"It must be as you wish, father," she said slowly; "there is no help for
it; I cannot see you brought to disgrace. Stephen Whitelaw must have the
price he asks for his money."

"That's a good lass," cried the bailiff, springing up and clasping his
daughter in his arms, a most unusual display of affection on his part;
"that's bravely spoken, Nell, and you never need repent the choice
that'll make you mistress of Wyncomb Farm, with a good home to give your
father in his old age."

The girl drew herself hastily from his embrace, and turned away from him
with a shudder. He was her father, and there was something horrible in
the idea of h