quite broken. And yet, I feel I have
a heart now, which I thought I had not before you came. Dear, dear
father,' she said, rising and putting her arms round Mr. Temple's neck
and leaning on his bosom, and speaking in a sweet yet very mournful
voice, 'henceforth your happiness shall be mine. I will not disgrace
you; you shall not see me grieve; I will atone, I will endeavour to
atone, for my great sins, for sins they were towards you.'

'My child, the time will come when we shall remember this bitterness
only as a lesson. But I know the human heart too well to endeavour to
stem your sorrow now; I only came to soothe it. My blessing is upon you,
my child. Let us talk no more. Henrietta, I will send your maid to you.
Try to sleep; try to compose yourself.'

'These people--to-morrow--what shall I do?'

'Leave all to me. Keep your chamber until they have gone. You need
appear no more.'

'Oh! that no human being might again see me!'

'Hush! that is not a wise wish. Be calm; we shall yet be happy.
To-morrow we will talk; and so good night, my child; good night, my own
Henrietta.'

Mr. Temple left the room. He bade the maid go to her mistress, in as
calm a tone as if indeed her complaint had been only a headache; and
then he entered his own apartment. Over the mantel-piece was a portrait
of his daughter, gay and smiling as the spring; the room was adorned
with her drawings. He drew the chair near the fire, and gazed for some
time abstracted upon the flame, and then hid his weeping countenance in
his hands. He sobbed convulsively.

CHAPTER VIII.

_In Which Glastonbury Is Very Much Astonished_.

IT WAS a gusty autumnal night; Glastonbury sat alone in his tower; every
now and then the wind, amid a chorus of groaning branches and hissing
rain, dashed against his window; then its power seemed gradually lulled,
and perfect stillness succeeded, until a low moan was heard again in
the distance, which gradually swelled into storm. The countenance of
the good old man was not so serene as usual. Occasionally his thoughts
seemed to wander from the folio opened before him, and he fell into
fits of reverie which impressed upon his visage an expression rather of
anxiety than study.

The old man looked up to the portrait of the unhappy Lady Armine, and
heaved a deep sigh. Were his thoughts of her or of her child? He closed
his book, he replaced it upon its shelf, and, taking from a cabinet an
ancient crucifix of carved