her father would attempt to bring her.

"It must be all over now," said he at last.

She did not answer him, but gazed into his face with such a look of
woe that his heart was melted. She had found no argument. There had
not been in the whole letter one word of love for her.

"My darling, will it not be better that we should meet the blow?"

"I have met it, all along. Some day, perhaps, he might be different."

"In what way, dearest? He does not even profess to hope so himself."

"That gentleman in London, Papa, would have paid nothing for him
unless he wrote like this. He had to do it. Papa, you had better just
leave me to myself. I will not trouble you by mentioning his name."

"But Emily--"

"Well, Papa?"

"Mamma and I cannot bear that you should suffer alone."

"I must suffer, and silence is the easiest. I will go now and think
about it. Dear Papa, I know that you have always done everything for
the best."

He did not see her again that evening. Her mother was with her in
her own room, and of course they were talking about Cousin George
for hours together. It could not be avoided, in spite of what Emily
had herself said of the expediency of silence. But she did not once
allude to the possibility of a future marriage. As the man was so
dear to her, and as he bore their name, and as he must inherit her
father's title, could not some almost superhuman exertion be made for
his salvation? Surely so much as that might be done, if they all made
it the work of their lives.

"It must be the work of my life, Mamma," she said.

Lady Elizabeth forbore from telling her that there was no side on
which she could approach him. The poor girl herself, however, must
have felt that it was so. As she thought of it all she reminded
herself that, though they were separated miles asunder, still she
could pray for him. We need not doubt this at least,--that to him who
utters them prayers of intercession are of avail.

On the following morning she was at breakfast, and both her father
and mother remarked that something had been changed in her dress. The
father only knew that it was so, but the mother could have told of
every ribbon that had been dropped, and every ornament that had been
laid aside. Emily Hotspur had lived a while, if not among the gayest
of the gay, at least among the brightest of the bright in outside
garniture, and having been asked to consult no questions of expense,
had taught herself to dress as do the