her coming alone harder by
one word or action. But as you love me, so deal with my wife.
Farewell, dear father!--a last farewell! Before you receive this,
I shall be sleeping in my distant grave. And oh when my poor
Louisa presents it, treat her not harshly, as you hope that we
shall meet again.

Your affectionate and repentant son,
ARTHUR.

As the old man ceased reading, his head fell upon the table, and bitter
tears coursed down his cheeks. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur! my boy! my only
child! why, why did you leave me? How gladly would I have received your
wife! But now how harshly have I treated her--how cruelly sent her forth
into this heartless world, friendless and alone! But I will find her and
bring her home--yes, yes, I will love her for his sake. Oh if I had only
taken this when she brought it! But I will lose no time now. Oh, Arthur!
Arthur!" he murmured, and he rang the bell violently. "John! John!" he
said to the faithful old man who answered his summons, "stay, John, till
I can speak," he cried, gasping for breath and trembling from head to
foot. "My boy, my Arthur is dead!" he wailed, at length, and that
person--that lady--was his widow, John. It was all true that she said,
and I treated her so badly, too."

"Yes," old John replied, meekly, "I thought it wor true; she didn't look
like an himpostor, she didn't," and he shook his head gravely.

"You must find her, John, and bring her back. Go, you have your orders;
you must find her. Arthur is dead, and he has sent his wife to me, and I
must take care of her--that is all I can do for him now."

"Ah, that's the way with them secret marriages," soliloquized old John.
"What in the world made Mr. Arthur act so, I wonder, and his governor so
indulgent?"

"Yes we will find her, and she shall have the green room, not
Arthur's--no, not Arthur's. Love her for his sake, he says; aye that I
will," murmured his lordship, as he paced the room. "Too late, old man,
too late, too late."

CHAPTER XXI.

"I declare it's a shame," cried Emily throwing a letter on the table.
"I can't think what Everard means, it's positively unkind, I shall write
and tell him so," she continued endeavoring in vain to repress the tears
of vexation that would not be restrained. "I would not have believed it
of him, indeed I would not--what will Harry think, I should like to
know."

"What is the matter," asked Grace and Isabel at the same time.

"Read