and joyous.
Her presence operated as perpetual sunshine on the more pensive natures
of the mother and son. It was therefore a great surprise to Mrs.
Beauchamp when, one day at luncheon, about a week before the time fixed
for the termination of her visit, Fanny announced her intention of
leaving Woodthorpe that afternoon, if her friend could spare her the
carriage.

"I can certainly spare it, Fanny; but I should like to know the reason
of this sudden determination?"

"You must excuse my telling you, Mrs. Beauchamp; but I hope you will
believe me when I say that it is from a sense of duty." As she spoke,
she raised her head with a proud look, her eyes flashed, and she spoke
in the haughty tone which always brought before Mrs. Beauchamp the image
of her early lover; for it was in her proud moments that Fanny most
resembled her father.

"Far be it from me, Fanny," she replied, with her wonted sweetness and
benignity, "to ask any one to tamper with duty; but, my child, our
faults, our _pride_ frequently mislead us. You shall go to-night, if you
please; but I wish, for my sake, you could stay at least till to-morrow
morning. I have not offended you, Fanny?"

"Oh, dearest Mrs. Beauchamp!" and the poor girl burst into tears. "I
wish--I _wish_ I could only show you how I love you--how grateful I am
for all your goodness; but you will never, never know."

Mrs. Beauchamp looked anxiously at her, and began, "Fanny"----But
suddenly stopped, as if she knew not how to proceed. Immediately
afterwards the young girl left the room, silently and passionately
kissing Mrs. Beauchamp's hand as she passed her on her way to the door.

A few hours later in the day, as Mrs. Beauchamp sat reading in her
boudoir, according to her custom at that particular hour, Edmund
abruptly entered the little room in a state of agitation quite foreign
to his ordinary disposition and habits.

"Mother!" he cried.

"My love! what is the matter?"

"Mother! I love Fanny Dalton--I love her with all my soul. I think her
not only the loveliest and most charming of women, but the best and
truest! I feel that she might make my life not only happier, but better.
Oh, mother! is not love as real a thing as either wealth or station? Is
it not as sufficient for all noble works? Is it not in some shape the
only motive for all real improvement? It seems to me that such is the
lesson I have been learning from you all my life long."

"And in that you have learned it