were deeply interested, but the
knowledge of which could only bring you unhappiness. Yet it was
destined that my solicitude should eventually be baffled. I know that
it is not from my lips that you learn for the first time that you have
a father, a father living.'

'Mother, let me tell you all!' said Venetia, eagerly.

'I know all,' said Lady Annabel.

'But, mother, there is something that you do not know; and now I would
confess it.'

'There is nothing that you can confess with which I am not acquainted,
Venetia; and I feel assured, I have ever felt assured, that your only
reason for concealment was a desire to save me pain.'

'That, indeed, has ever been my only motive,' replied Venetia, 'for
having a secret from my mother.'

'In my absence from Cherbury you entered the chamber,' said Lady
Annabel, calmly. 'In the delirium of your fever I became acquainted
with a circumstance which so nearly proved fatal to you.'

Venetia's cheek turned scarlet.

'In that chamber you beheld the portrait of your father,' continued
Lady Annabel. 'From our friend you learnt that father was still
living. That is all?' said Lady Annabel, inquiringly.

'No, not all, dear mother; not all. Lord Cadurcis reproached me at
Cherbury with, with, with having such a father,' she added, in a
hesitating voice. 'It was then I learnt his misfortunes, mother; his
misery.'

'I thought that misfortunes, that misery, were the lot of your other
parent,' replied Lady Annabel, somewhat coldly.

'Not with my love,' said Venetia, eagerly; 'not with my love, mother.
You have forgotten your misery in my love. Say so, say so, dearest
mother.' And Venetia threw herself on her knees before Lady Annabel,
and looked up with earnestness in her face.

The expression of that countenance had been for a moment stern, but
it relaxed into fondness, as Lady Annabel gently bowed her head, and
pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead. 'Ah, Venetia!' she said,
'all depends upon you. I can endure, nay, I can forget the past, if my
child be faithful to me. There are no misfortunes, there is no misery,
if the being to whom I have consecrated the devotion of my life will
only be dutiful, will only be guided by my advice, will only profit by
my sad experience.'

'Mother, I repeat I have no thought but for you,' said Venetia. 'My
own dearest mother, if my duty, if my devotion can content you, you
shall be happy. But wherein have I failed?'

'In nothing, love. You