ent from
her chamber again--the former to endeavour to seek some repose, as it
would be his turn to watch on the succeeding night, and the latter to
resume his station in a small room close to Flora's chamber, where it
had been agreed watch and ward should be kept by turns while the alarm
lasted.

At length, the morning again dawned upon that unhappy family, and to
none were its beams more welcome.

The birds sang their pleasant carols beneath the window. The sweet,
deep-coloured autumnal sun shone upon all objects with a golden luster;
and to look abroad, upon the beaming face of nature, no one could for a
moment suppose, except from sad experience, that there were such things
as gloom, misery, and crime, upon the earth.

"And must I," said Henry, as he gazed from a window of the hall upon the
undulating park, the majestic trees, the flowers, the shrubs, and the
many natural beauties with which the place was full,--"must I be chased
from this spot, the home of my self and of my kindred, by a
phantom--must I indeed seek refuge elsewhere, because my own home has
become hideous?"

It was indeed a cruel and a painful thought! It was one he yet would
not, could not be convinced was absolutely necessary. But now the sun
was shining: it was morning; and the feelings, which found a home in his
breast amid the darkness, the stillness, and the uncertainty of night,
were chased away by those glorious beams of sunlight, that fell upon
hill, valley, and stream, and the thousand sweet sounds of life and
animation that filled that sunny air!

Such a revulsion of feeling was natural enough. Many of the distresses
and mental anxieties of night vanish with the night, and those which
oppressed the heart of Henry Bannerworth were considerably modified.

He was engaged in these reflections when he heard the sound of the lodge
bell, and as a visitor was now somewhat rare at this establishment, he
waited with some anxiety to see to whom he was indebted for so early a
call.

In the course of a few minutes, one of the servants came to him with a
letter in her hand.

It bore a large handsome seal, and, from its appearance, would seem to
have come from some personage of consequence. A second glance at it
shewed him the name of "Varney" in the corner, and, with some degree of
vexation, he muttered to himself,

"Another condoling epistle from the troublesome neighbour whom I have
not yet seen."

"If you please, sir," said the servant