ng, the first thing that
came into my head."

"You--you have obliged me and my niece, sir," said the baronet,
tremulously; and then, with a forced and sickly smile, he added: "Some
foolish vagary of Lucretia, I suppose; I must scold her for it. Say
nothing about it, however, to any one."

"Oh, no, sir!"

"Good-by, my dear Gabriel!"

"And that boy saved the honour of my niece's name,--my mother's
grandchild! O God! this is bitter,--in my old age too!"

He bowed his head over his hands, and tears forced themselves through
his fingers. He was long before he had courage to read the letter,
though he little foreboded all the shock that it would give him. It was
the first letter, not destined to himself, of which he had ever broken
the seal. Even that recollection made the honourable old man pause; but
his duty was plain and evident, as head of the house and guardian to his
niece. Thrice he wiped his spectacles; still they were dim, still the
tears would come. He rose tremblingly, walked to the window, and saw
the stately deer grouped in the distance, saw the church spire that rose
above the burial vault of his ancestors, and his heart sank deeper and
deeper as he muttered: "Vain pride! pride!" Then he crept to the door
and locked it, and at last, seating himself firmly, as a wounded man to
some terrible operation, he read the letter.

Heaven support thee, old man! thou hast to pass through the bitterest
trial which honour and affection can undergo,--household treason. When
the wife lifts high the blushless front and brazens out her guilt; when
the child, with loud voice, throws off all control and makes boast of
disobedience,--man revolts at the audacity; his spirit arms against
his wrong: its face, at least, is bare; the blow, if sacrilegious, is
direct. But when mild words and soft kisses conceal the worst foe Fate
can arm; when amidst the confidence of the heart starts up the form of
Perfidy; when out from the reptile swells the fiend in its terror; when
the breast on which man leaned for comfort has taken counsel to deceive
him; when he learns that, day after day, the life entwined with his own
has been a lie and a stage-mime,--he feels not the softness of grief,
nor the absorption of rage; it is mightier than grief, and more
withering than rage,--it is a horror that appalls. The heart does not
bleed, the tears do not flow, as in woes to which humanity is commonly
subjected; it is as if something that violates the