the common courtesies of good breeding to
Mr. Benfield's guest.

While sitting at the dessert, her servant handed the pocket book, as
directed by his mistress, to its owner, saying, "Your pocket-book, I
believe, Mr. Denbigh." Denbigh took the book, and held it in his hand for
a moment in surprise, and then fixed his eye keenly on the man, as he
inquired where he found it, and how he knew it was his. These were
interrogatories Francis was not prepared to answer, and in his confusion
he naturally turned his eyes on his mistress. Denbigh followed their
direction with his own, and in encountering the looks of the lady, he
asked in a stammering manner, and with a face of scarlet,

"Am I indebted to you, madam, for my property?"

"No, sir; it was given me by one who found it, to restore to you," said
Mrs. Wilson, gravely, and the subject was dropped, both appearing willing
to say no more. Yet Denbigh was abstracted and absent during the remainder
of the repast, and Emily spoke to him once or twice without obtaining an
answer. Mrs. Wilson caught his eye several times fixed on her with an
inquiring and doubtful expression, that convinced her he was alarmed. If
any confirmation of his guilt had been wanting, the consciousness he
betrayed during this scene afforded it; and she set seriously about
considering the shortest and best method of interrupting his intercourse
with Emily, before he had drawn from her an acknowledgment of her love.

Chapter XXVIII.

On withdrawing to her dressing-room after dinner, Mrs. Wilson commenced
the disagreeable duty of removing the veil from the eyes of her niece, by
recounting to her the substance of Mrs. Fitzgerald's last communication.
To the innocence of Emily such persecution could excite no other
sensations than surprise and horror; and as her aunt omitted the part
concerning the daughter of Sir Edward Moseley, she naturally expressed her
wonder as to who the wretch could be.

"Possibly, aunt," she said with an involuntary shudder, "some of the many
gentlemen we have lately seen, and one who has had art enough to conceal
his real character from the world."

"Concealment, my love," replied Mrs. Wilson, "would be hardly necessary.
Such is the fashionable laxity of morals, that I doubt not many of his
associates would laugh at his misconduct, and that he would still continue
to pass with the world as an honorable man."

"And ready," cried her niece, "to sacrifice human life,