During the hour that elapsed before her father and mother returned, Emmeline endeavoured to compose her spirits. She bathed her red and swollen eyes, walked in the fresh air, and, hearing their carriage drive up to the door, resolved to command herself, and went to meet them with a cheerful countenance. But when the spirits are weak, there is nothing so difficult to bear as tenderness. Her father’s fond benediction, the smile of delight that beamed in her mother’s face, on unexpectedly beholding her, were too much for poor Emmeline, unused as she was to demonstrations of affection; and falling into her mother’s arms, in spite of her resolutions and endeavours, she again burst into tears. “My dear love! my child!” both exclaimed, “what can be the matter?” “Nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline; “I have not been quite well lately, and my spirits are in consequence weakened; and I was too happy to see you—that is all.” Mrs. Benson shook her head, and looked at her incredulously. Her father, fixing his eyes stedfastly on her face, took her hand. “Speak to me, my girl,” said he. “What is it that so distresses you?” “Nothing!” again repeated Emmeline in a fainter voice; “I shall soon be quite well.” “Emmy! Emmy!” rejoined her father, “for once I don’t believe you; it is too long since you have not been _well_, as you call it; and there is _a_ something the matter that I must and will know.” Emmeline averted her head, and did not answer. “You need not attempt to deceive me any longer, girl,” said Mr. Benson, sternly; “I have long suspected that all was not right between you and your husband. I will now know the truth, and I have a right to demand it of you.” Still she was silent. “What! you will not speak! you will not confide in me!” he continued, his temper rising; “then I must seek for information elsewhere:” and he moved towards the door of the room. “Oh, my father!” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“What would you do?” “Do? why I shall go to town directly. I shall see Lord Fitzhenry,” said Mr. Benson, in a calmer, but decided tone; “and from him I must learn what has passed between you, since you, my own child, will not trust me.” “Oh! speak not so to me, dear father! indeed I have full confidence in your kindness—in your indulgence; but really, I have nothing to tell which you do not know already—I have been to blame, perhaps—I mean I was not aware—I was deceived,—even you dear father”— “Deceived?” repeated Mr. Benson quickly—catching at the word: “deceived by me? what do you mean?” “Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline, alarmed at her father’s unusual look of anger: “we were all to blame, but—but—perhaps it would have been better if—”