From the window she sadly saw him drive off; whither and to whom he was going, she could not doubt. Several days passed, and she heard nothing from him; at last, a letter, franked Fitzhenry, was put into her hands; she opened it hastily—her heart beating with emotion—but it merely enclosed a printed one from some trades-person in London, applying for her custom. In a fit of vexation, almost of anger, she was nearly throwing the whole into the fire, when some writing on one of the flaps of the cover caught her attention, and she found these words. “The longer Mrs. Benson can stay with you the better; I believe I shall not be home for a fortnight. Should she not be able to remain, perhaps you had better go and pay your father a visit; and I will let you know when I am likely to be at Arlingford again; but now, and always, do whatever you yourself like best. I hope soon to hear you are well. “Yours, “FITZHENRY.” “So you have got a letter from your husband,” said Mrs. Benson; “and a fine thick packet. I hope he is well?” “Quite well,” said Emmeline, sadly. “What news does he give? what has he been about?” “News?” repeated Emmeline, absently— “Yes; I mean—what does he say?” “Say? oh, nothing.” “What! nothing in all that quantity of paper and writing? Lord, child! you are quite in a dream”—and Mrs. Benson took off her spectacles, and her eyes from the newspaper she was reading, and fixed them attentively on her daughter. This roused her from her reverie, and suddenly recollecting herself, she said, “Oh yes, I forget; he says, he can’t come home yet, and we had better go to Charlton to my father till his return.” “Well, I think that will be a very good plan,” said Mrs. Benson: “some business, I suppose, detains him.” “I suppose so,” echoed Emmeline.