verie; but gradually her face brightened, her lips moved, and her eyes
glistened with resolution. As she was endeavoring to fight bravely
against misfortune, she suddenly heard the wheels of her father's
_caleche_ returning to Grinselhof. She ran down instantly to meet him;
and as he drew up at the door she perceived the poor sufferer buried in
a corner of the vehicle, apparently deprived of all consciousness; and,
when he descended from the vehicle and she saw his expression
distinctly, the deadly pallor that covered his haggard cheeks almost
made her sink to the earth with anxiety. Indeed, she had neither heart
nor strength to utter a word to him; but, standing aside in silence, she
allowed the old man to enter the house and bury himself as usual in his
chamber.

For some minutes she stood on the door-sill, undecided as to what she
should do; but by degrees her brow and cheeks began to redden, and the
light of resolution shone in her moistened eyes.

"Ought the feeling of respect to restrain me longer?" said she to
herself; "shall I let my father die without an effort? No! no! I must
know all! I must tear the worm from his heart; I must save him by my
love!"

Without a moment's further delay, she ran rapidly through three or four
chambers, and came to the apartment where her father was seated with his
elbows resting on the table and his head buried in his hands. Throwing
herself on her knees at his feet, and with hands raised to him in
supplication,--

"Have mercy on me, father!" exclaimed she; "have mercy on me, I beseech
you on my knees; tell me what it is that distresses you! I must know why
it is that my father buries himself in this solitude and seems to fly
even from his child!"

"Lenora! thou last and only treasure that remainest to me on earth,"
replied De Vlierbeck, in a broken voice, with despair in his wild
gaze,--"thou hast suffered, dreadfully, my child, hast thou not? Rest thy
poor head in my bosom. A terrible blow, my child, is about to fall on
us!"

Lenora did not seem to pay any attention to these remarks, but,
disengaging herself from her father's embrace, replied, in firm and
decided tones,--

"I have not come here, father, for consolation, but with the unalterable
determination to learn the cause of your suffering. I will not go away
without knowing what misfortune it is that has so long deprived me of
your love. No matter how much I may venerate you and respect your
silence, the sense of