ease, and that it might be well to leave me by myself. After a look
round the bedchamber to see that nothing was wanting to my comfort, she
made her quaint curtsey, and left me with her own inimitable form of
farewell. "Oh, indeed, I have been here too long! And I'm afraid I have
been guilty, once or twice, of vulgar familiarity. You will excuse me, I
hope. This has been an exciting interview--I think I am going to cry."

She ran out of the room; and carried away with her some of my kindliest
feelings, short as the time of our acquaintance had been. What a wife
and what a mother was lost there--and all for want of a pretty face!

Left alone, my thoughts inevitably reverted to Dunboyne the elder,
and to all that had happened in Mr. Gracedieu's family since the Irish
gentleman had written to me in bygone years.

The terrible choice of responsibilities which had preyed on the
Minister's mind had been foreseen by Mr. Dunboyne, when he first thought
of adopting his infant niece, and had warned him to dread what might
happen in the future, if he brought her up as a member of the family
with his own boy, and if the two young people became at a later period
attached to each other. How had the wise foresight, which offered such
a contrast to the poor Minister's impulsive act of mercy, met with its
reward? Fate or Providence (call it which we may) had brought Dunboyne's
son and the daughter of the murderess together; had inspired those two
strangers with love; and had emboldened them to plight their troth by a
marriage engagement. Was the man's betrayal of the trust placed in him
by the faithful girl to be esteemed a fortunate circumstance by the
two persons who knew the true story of her parentage, the Minister and
myself? Could we rejoice in an act of infidelity which had embittered
and darkened the gentle harmless life of the victim? Or could we, on the
other hand, encourage the ruthless deceit, the hateful treachery,
which had put the wicked Helena--with no exposure to dread if _she_
married--into her wronged sister's place? Impossible! In the one case as
in the other, impossible!

Equally hopeless did the prospect appear, when I tried to determine what
my own individual course of action ought to be.

In my calmer moments, the idea had occurred to my mind of going to
Dunboyne the younger, and, if he had any sense of shame left, exerting
my influence to lead him back to his betrothed wife. How could I now do
this, consist