lliam Aveleyn's
bosom. "I knew that he was to die," said she, raising her head, after a
time--"he told me so; but, to think that I shall never hear him speak
again--that very soon I shall never see him more--I must cry, William."

"But your father is happy, Amber."

"_He_ is happy, I know; but he was not my father, William. I have no
father--no friend on earth I know of. He told me all before he died;
'Faithful' brought me from the sea."

This intelligence roused the curiosity of William Aveleyn, who interrogated
Amber, and obtained from her the whole of the particulars communicated by
Edward Forster; and, as she answered to his many questions, she grew more
composed.

The narrative had scarcely been finished, when Lord Aveleyn, who had been
summoned by Robertson, drove to the door accompanied by Lady Aveleyn, who
thought that her presence and persuasions would more readily induce Amber
to leave the cottage. Convinced by her of the propriety of the proposal,
Amber was put into the carriage without resistance, and conveyed to the
Hall, where everything that kindness and sympathy could suggest was
resorted to, to assuage her grief. There we must leave her, and repair to
the metropolis.

"Scratton," said Mr John Forster to his clerk, who had answered the bell,
"recollect I cannot see anyone today."

"You have several appointments, sir," replied the clerk.

"Then send, and put them all off."

"Yes, sir; and if anyone calls, I am to say that you are not at home?"

"No, I am at home; why tell a lie? but I cannot see anybody."

The clerk shut the door; John Forster put on his spectacles to re-peruse
the letter which lay before him. It was the one from Edward, inclosed in a
frank by Lord Aveleyn, with a few lines, announcing his brother's death,
and stating that Amber was at the Hall, where they should be glad that she
should remain until it was convenient to send for her. Edward's letter
repeated his thanks to his brother for his kind promise, and took a last
and affectionate farewell. John Forster struggled for a time with his
feelings; but the more he attempted to repress them the more violent they
became. He was alone, and he gave them vent. The legal documents before
him, arising from the bitterness of strife, were thus unusually moistened
with a tribute to a brother's memory. But in a few moments the old lawyer
was himself again; all traces of emotion had disappeared, and no one who
had seen him then would ever