ew, and so unused to assume superiority over him that he did
not know what to do, and found all kinds of reasons for avoiding the
embarrassing scene. Since Philip still must be dealt with cautiously,
better not enter on the subject at all. When reminded that the suspense
was worse than anything, he said, no one could tell how things would,
turn out, and grew angry with his wife for wishing him to make up a
shameful affair like that, when poor Guy had not been dead a week, and
he had been the death of him; but it was just like mamma, she always
spoilt him. He had a great mind to vow never to consent to his
daughter's marrying such an overbearing, pragmatical fellow; she ought
to be ashamed of even thinking of him, when he was no better than her
brother's murderer.

After this tirade, Mrs. Edmonstone might well feel obliged to tell
Amabel, that papa must not be pressed any further; and, of course, if he
would not speak, she could not (nor did she wish it).

'Then, mamma,' said Amabel, with the air of decision that had lately
grown on her, 'I must tell him. I beg your pardon,' she added,
imploringly; 'but indeed I must. It is hard on him not to hear that you
had not his letter, and that Laura has told. I know Guy would wish me,
so don't be displeased, dear mamma.'

'I can't be displeased with anything you do.'

'And you give me leave?'

'To be sure I do,--leave to do anything but hurt yourself.'

'And would it be wrong for me to offer to write to him? No one else
will, and it will be sad for him not to hear. It cannot be wrong,
can it?' said she, as the fingers of her right hand squeezed her
wedding-ring, a habit she had taken up of late.

'Certainly not, my poor darling. Do just as you think fit. I am sorry
for him, for I am sure he is in great trouble, and I should like him to
be comforted--if he can. But, Amy, you must not ask me to do it. He has
disappointed me too much.'

Mrs. Edmonstone left the room in tears.

Amabel went up to the window, looked long at the chestnut-tree, then
up into the sky, sat down, and leant her forehead on her hand in
meditation, until she rose up, cheered and sustained, as if she had been
holding council with her husband.

She did not over-estimate Philip's sufferings from suspense and anxiety.
He had not heard a word of Laura; how she had borne his illness, nor how
much displeasure his confession had brought upon her; nor could he learn
what hope there was that his repentance wa