Poor Mrs. Benson gazed at her in silent anxiety. There was their Emmeline again returned to them, to the same place, the same quiet home, avocations and duties she used to perform; but, how changed! Formerly, she was their joy, their pride: to look on her laughing eyes, and on her fresh smooth cheek, had been enough to make them happy; but now the sight was misery. Mr. Benson also was changed. Though sometimes, in the kind endeavour to cheer his melancholy companions, he attempted to resume his usual loquacity, and even tried his bad jokes; yet, as they no longer proceeded from an exuberantly happy heart, they had lost their only merit; and, seeing how ill they in general succeeded, and that his intended wit and mirth oftener forced tears than smiles from his suffering daughter, he at last gave up the attempt entirely, and seemed to resign himself to the sadness which oppressed him. He appeared also to have entirely lost his usual bustling activity. He often stood for hours at the window, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the blue sky and green grass, objects which he had never been seen to gaze at before; or, sitting with the newspaper in his hand, reading over and over the same page, almost unconscious of the words before him; for now, neither public news, nor even the price of stocks, seemed to have power to arrest his attention. Fitzhenry was never named among them, nor that painful subject any way alluded to. One day, however, that Mr. Benson and Emmeline were alone together, after the former had, as was now usual to him, sat a long time silent, he suddenly looked up, and, addressing her in the decided tone of one who has well considered the matter of which he is about to treat— “Emmy!” said he—for he had now quite left off calling her Lady Fitzhenry, which he had, with apparently proud satisfaction after her marriage, always done—“Emmy, I have indulged your fancies all this time—I have complied with your request—I have said nothing—done nothing. In short, to please you, I have, in truth, made but a silly figure; but this cannot go on—it is impossible—you cannot yourself wish it. Something decided must be settled between you and your husband.” Emmeline’s pale cheek grew still paler, and, in answer, she put into her father’s hand Mr. Pelham’s last letter. He read it over and over and over several times, looked at the date, the signature, the direction, even with the precaution and accuracy of business, and then returning it—