tout. The paragraph was as follows, recording an
event a year or more anterior to the date of the paper:--

'MARRIAGE.--On Tuesday, August 7, 18--, at Leatherwig Church, by the Rev.
Arthur Hughes, Dudley R. Ruthyn, Esq., only son and heir of Silas Ruthyn,
Esq., of Bartram-Haugh, Derbyshire, to Sarah Matilda, second daughter of
John Mangles, Esq., of Wiggan, in this county.'

At first I read nothing but amazement in this announcement, but in another
moment I felt how completely I was relieved; and showing, I believe, my
intense satisfaction in my countenance--for the young lady eyed me with
considerable surprise and curiosity--I said--

'This is extremely important. You must see Mr. Silas Ruthyn this moment. I
am certain he knows nothing of it. I will conduct you to him.'

'No more he does--I know that myself,' she replied, following me with a
self-asserting swagger, and a great rustling of cheap silk.

As we entered, Uncle Silas looked up from his sofa, and closed his _Revue
des Deux Mondes_.

'What is all this?' he enquired, drily.

'This lady has brought with her a newspaper containing an extraordinary
statement which affects our family,' I answered.

Uncle Silas raised himself, and looked with a hard, narrow scrutiny at the
unknown young lady.

'A libel, I suppose, in the paper?' he said, extending his hand for it.

'No, uncle--no; only a marriage,' I answered.

'Not Monica?' he said, as he took it. 'Pah, it smells all over of tobacco
and beer,' he added, throwing a little eau de Cologne over it.

He raised it with a mixture of curiosity and disgust, saying again 'pah,'
as he did so.

He read the paragraph, and as he did his face changed from white, all over,
to lead colour. He raised his eyes, and looked steadily for some seconds at
the young lady, who seemed a little awed by his strange presence.

'And you are, I suppose, the young lady, Sarah Matilda _nee_ Mangles,
mentioned in this little paragraph?' he said, in a tone you would have
called a sneer, were it not that it trembled.

Sarah Matilda assented.

'My son is, I dare say, within reach. It so happens that I wrote to arrest
his journey, and summon him here, some days since--some days since--some
days since,' he repeated slowly, like a person whose mind has wandered far
away from the theme on which he is speaking.

He had rung his bell, and old Wyat, always hovering about his rooms,
entered.

'I want my son, immediately. If not in the hous