have instantly stood revealed as a scheming, unprincipled
adventurer. In such estimation, at least, he must have been held by
Mr. Markland, and his future actions would have been governed by
that estimate.

The answer to Fanny's earnest, almost peremptory demand, to be
released from the injunction not to tell her parents of Mr. Lyon's
return, was in her possession, and the instant she could get away to
her own room, she tore the letter open. The reader already knows its
contents. The effect upon her was paralyzing. He had said that she
was in freedom to speak, but the consequences portrayed were too
fearful to contemplate. In freedom? No! Instead of loosing the cords
with which he had bound her spirit, he had only drawn them more
tightly. She was in freedom to speak, but the very first word she
uttered would sound the knell of her young heart's fondest hopes.
How, then, could she speak that word? Lyon had not miscalculated the
effect of his letter on the inexperienced, fond young girl, around
whose innocent heart he had woven a spell of enchantment. Most
adroitly had he seemed to leave her free to act from her own
desires, while he had made that action next to impossible.

How rapidly, sometimes, does the young mind gain premature strength
when subjected to strong trial. Little beyond an artless child was
Fanny Markland when she first met the fascinating young stranger;
and now she was fast growing into a deep-feeling, strong-thinking
woman. Hitherto she had leaned with tender confidence on her
parents, and walked the paths lovingly where they led the way. Now
she was moving, with unaided footsteps, along a new and rugged road,
that led she knew not whither; for clouds and darkness were in the
forward distance. At every step, she found a new strength and a new
power of endurance growing up in her young spirit. Thought, too, was
becoming clearer and stronger. The mature woman had suddenly taken
the place of the shrinking girl.

CHAPTER XX.

HALF the night, following the receipt of Mr. Lyon's letter, was
spent in writing an answer. Imploringly she besought him to release
her, truly, from the obligation to secrecy with which he had bound
her. Most touchingly did she picture her state of mind, and the
change wrought by it upon her mother. "I cannot bear this much
longer," she said. "I am too weak for the burden you have laid upon
me. It must be taken away soon, or I will sink under the weight. Oh,
sir! if, as