ty of their friend; and this
change of life, though apparently so slight, proved highly beneficial
to Venetia. She daily recovered her health, and a degree of mental
composure which she had not for some time enjoyed. On the whole she
was greatly satisfied with the discoveries which she had made. She had
ascertained the name and the existence of her father: his very form
and appearance were now no longer matter for conjecture; and in a
degree she had even communicated with him. Time, she still believed,
would develope even further wonders. She clung to an irresistible
conviction that she should yet see him; that he might even again
be united to her mother. She indulged in dreams as to his present
pursuits and position; she repeated to herself his verses, and
remembered his genius with pride and consolation.

They returned to Cherbury, they resumed the accustomed tenour of their
lives, as if nothing had occurred to disturb it. The fondness between
the mother and her daughter was unbroken and undiminished. They shared
again the same studies and the same amusements. Lady Annabel perhaps
indulged the conviction that Venetia had imbibed the belief that her
father was no more, and yet in truth that father was the sole idea on
which her child ever brooded. Venetia had her secret now; and often
as she looked up at the windows of the uninhabited portion of the
building, she remembered with concealed, but not less keen exultation,
that she had penetrated their mystery. She could muse for hours over
all that chamber had revealed to her, and indulge in a thousand
visions, of which her father was the centre. She was his 'own
Venetia.' Thus he had hailed her at her birth, and thus he might yet
again acknowledge her. If she could only ascertain where he existed!
What if she could, and she were to communicate with him? He must love
her. Her heart assured her he must love her. She could not believe,
if they were to meet, that his breast could resist the silent appeal
which the sight merely of his only child would suffice to make. Oh!
why had her parents parted? What could have been his fault? He was so
young! But a few, few years older than herself, when her mother must
have seen him for the last time. Yes! for the last time beheld that
beautiful form, and that countenance that seemed breathing only with
genius and love. He might have been imprudent, rash, violent; but
she would not credit for an instant that a stain could attach to the