my
mother? alas--love! I wish I could persuade myself that she would wish
me back again if I were gone; moreover, how can I respect her judgment,
or be guided by her counsel, whose constant aim has been to thwart my
feeble efforts after truth and wisdom, and to pamper all ill growths in
my unhappy brother Julian? No, Emily; I am a man now, and take my own
advice. If a parent forbade me, indeed, and reasonably, it would be fit
to acquiesce; but knowing, as I have sad cause to know, that none but
you, my love, will be sorry for my absence, as for your sake alone that
absence is designed, I need take counsel only of us who are here
present--your own sweet eyes, myself, and God who seeth us."

"True--most true, dear Charles; I knew that you judged rightly."

"Moreover, Emmy, secresy is needful for the due fulfilment of my
purpose." (Charles little thought how congenial to his nature was that
same secresy.) "None but you must know where I am, or whither I am gone.
For if there really is any mystery which the general would conceal from
us, be assured he both could and would frustrate all my efforts if he
knew of my design. The same ship that carried me out would convey an
emissary from him, and nurse Mackie never could be found by me. I must
go then secretly, and, for our peace sake, soon; how dear to me that
embassy will be, entirely undertaken in my darling Emmy's cause!"

"But--but, Charles, what if Julian, in your absence--"

"Hark, my own betrothed! while I am near you--and I say it not of
threat, but as in the sight of One who has privileged me to be your
protector--you are safe from any serious vexation; and the moment I am
gone, fly to my father, tell him openly your fears, and he will scatter
Julian's insolence to the winds of heaven."

"Thank you--thank you, wise dear Charles; you have lifted a load from my
poor, weak, woman's heart, that had weighed it down too heavily. I will
trust in God more, and dread Julian less. Oh! how I will pray for you
when far away."

CHAPTER X.

AUNT GREEN'S LEGACY.

At last--at last, Mrs. Green fell ill, and, hard upon the over-ripe age
of eighty-seven, seemed likely to drop into the grave--to the
unspeakable delight of her expectant relatives. Sooth to say, niece
Jane, the soured and long-waiting legatee, had now for years been
treating the poor old woman very scurvily: she had lived too long, and
had grown to be a burden; notwithstanding that her ample income still