with a voice that was intended to be serious, but which
struck upon the ear of his companion as being affected and unlike the
owner of it. "This is a very sad thing about my poor girl," said Sir
Marmaduke.

"Indeed it is. There is only one thing to be said about it, Rowley."

"And what's that?"

"The man must be mad."

"He is not so mad as to give us any relief by his madness,--poor as
such comfort would be. He has got Emily's child away from her, and
I think it will about kill her. And what is to become of her? As to
taking her back to the islands without her child, it is out of the
question. I never knew anything so cruel in my life."

"And so absurd, you know."

"Ah,--that's just the question. If anybody had asked me, I should
have said that you were the man of all men whom I could have best
trusted."

"Do you doubt it now?"

"I don't know what to think."

"Do you mean to say that you suspect me,--and your daughter too?"

"No;--by heavens! Poor dear. If I suspected her, there would be an
end of all things with me. I could never get over that. No; I don't
suspect her!" Sir Marmaduke had now dropped his affected tone, and
was speaking with natural energy.

"But you do me?"

"No;--if I did, I don't suppose I should be sitting with you here;
but they tell me--"

"They tell you what?"

"They tell me that,--that you did not behave wisely about it. Why
could you not let her alone when you found out how matters were
going?"

"Who has been telling you this, Rowley?"

Sir Marmaduke considered for awhile, and then remembering that
Colonel Osborne could hardly quarrel with a clergyman, told him the
truth. "Outhouse says that you have done her an irretrievable injury
by going down to Devonshire to her, and by writing to her."

"Outhouse is an ass."

"That is easily said;--but why did you go?"

"And why should I not go? What the deuce! Because a man like that
chooses to take vagaries into his head I am not to see my own
godchild!" Sir Marmaduke tried to remember whether the Colonel was in
fact the godfather of his eldest daughter, but he found that his mind
was quite a blank about his children's godfathers and godmothers.
"And as for the letters;--I wish you could see them. The only letters
which had in them a word of importance were those about your coming
home. I was anxious to get that arranged, not only for your sake, but
because she was so eager about it."

"God bless her, poor child," said Sir M