that she should never see his kind face again. The last link with the past—the past belonging to her dear father—was snapped. And yet she ought not to grieve that he was at rest, good honest soul!—for ever at rest from the troubles of this wicked world; that he had fallen asleep, in ignorance (as she then believed) of his wife's falsity, and only wounded through her—Elizabeth—whom he believed to be ungrateful. Sorely as she felt this, she said bravely to herself that it was better so. But she shed some bitter tears, nevertheless. It was the reopening of an old wound, rather than the infliction of a new one.
That evening was a perturbed one to all the three gathered together in the small upper chamber at Mentone. Elizabeth made no concealment of her sorrow; she had lost the last near relation she had upon earth. But she had another, and more present, cause for depression. She feared, though she could not feel sure, that her secret had been betrayed by Melchior. Alaric had said nothing to his sister, and was resolved that no hint of what he had learnt should escape him, as long as he could not alter his position of indebtedness. But, as is often the case, there was something in his manner—a change imperceptible to the casual observer—which did not elude the vigilant scrutiny of both his companions. Hatty, indeed, did not find it difficult to account for the shade more of softness in his tone, the additionally careworn look upon his dear face. She knew that he knew now how very short a time she would be with him. And after that, what then? She prayed, with all the fervour of narrowly restricted affections, that she might join together the
