oor in her hand until she heard
the sounds of the horse's hoofs as he drove down the road; then retired
to her own room. Well as she had borne up during the longed-for yet
much-dreaded meeting, calmly as she had sustained her part, her courage
all forsook her now, and in looking forward to days, weeks, and months
of frequent intercourse, she felt that the most trying part of the
struggle was yet to come.

Had Willie changed to her? No; he had come back as he went--generous,
manly, and affectionate. He had manifested the same unaffected warmth of
feeling, the same thoughtful tenderness, he had ever shown. In short, he
was the Willie she had thought of, dreamed of, imagined, and loved.
There was a light tap at her door. Thinking it a summons to the
tea-table, she said, "Jane, I do not wish for any supper."

"It isn't that," said the girl; "but I have brought you a letter."
Gertrude sprang up and opened the door.

"A little boy handed it to me and then ran off," said the girl, placing
a large package in her hand. "He told me to give it to you straight
away."

"Bring me a light," said Gertrude.

The girl went for a lamp, while Gertrude wondered what a package so
large could contain. She thought no letter could so soon arrive from Mr.
Amory. While she was wondering, Jane brought a lamp, by the light of
which she detected his handwriting; and, breaking the seal, she drew
from the envelope several closely-written pages, whose contents she
perused with the greatest eagerness and excitement.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE FATHER'S STORY.

"MY DAUGHTER,--My loving, kind-hearted girl. Now that your own words
encourage me with the assurance that my first fear was unfounded--now
that I can appeal to you as to an impartial witness, I will disclose the
story of my life; and, while I prove to you your parentage, will hope
that my unprejudiced child at least will believe, love, and trust her
father, in spite of a world's injustice.

"I will conceal nothing. I will plunge at once into those disclosures
which I most dread to utter, and trust to after explanation to palliate
the darkness of my tale.

"Mr. Graham is my step-father, and my blessed mother, long since dead,
was, in all but the tie of nature, a true mother to Emily. Thus allied
to those whom you love best, I am parted from them by a heavy curse;
for, not only was mine the ill-fated hand (oh, hate me not yet,
Gertrude!) which locked poor Emily up in darkness, but I stan