“I know it—I know it quite well child,” said he, impatiently; “you need not have come for me; why did you not say I was out, or busy, or sick? I am sure you may say the last with truth, for I am not half the man I used to be. I don’t want to see him; he is only come to try and palaver me over; and if I do go down to him, what in the world can we say to each other? Your marriage is the only thing we have talked about these last ten years, and the less now said of that the better, I am sure: and I am sore here,” said the good old citizen, seizing on his waistcoat, and rubbing it across his breast; “and I don’t want him to make matters worse. I wish his lordship had staid at home; for what the deuce can he be come here for?” “For no unkind purpose, I am sure,” said Emmeline, wishing to pacify her father—“for his manner to me is more than usually affectionate. For my sake, dear father, come down to him, and be cordial to him,” said she, grasping his hand with fervency, while her imploring eyes, fixed on his face, spoke all the feelings of heart. “You are a silly girl, Emmy,” said her father: “you have no proper pride. This abominable husband of yours has made a perfect fool of you; but go away to the drawing-room; say I will be down directly. Plague on him, he has turned me quite topsy-turvy.” Emmeline returned to Lord Arlingford, and was happy to find him and her mother conversing on indifferent subjects. In nervous agitation, she seated herself by them, listening with painful anxiety for her father’s approach—while her eyes and ears were fixed on Lord Arlingford, eagerly watching for every look, every tone, that bore the slightest resemblance to his son. It is hard to say, whether there is most pain or pleasure in such recollections of a beloved object, but who can help catching at them? A glance, a word will sometimes make the heart start from a stupor of grief to which it had been reduced, and give it a passing sensation of something we, at the moment, mistake for happiness. So it was with Emmeline; and, lost in such thoughts, she sat gazing on the still handsome countenance of Lord Arlingford, till, hearing her father’s step, she hastily rose, and walked towards the window, to conceal her nervous apprehensions as to the result of their meeting. Mr. Benson entered the room with a knit brow and both hands in his pockets; but Lord Arlingford’s decided resolution to meet him cordially, at last forced one hand out of its repulsive retreat. “I am glad to find our Emmeline looking better than I expected,” said Lord Arlingford, a little at a loss for a subject to begin with—the coldness of Mr. Benson’s look and manner having rather disconcerted him. “I heard she had left town on account of her health, the heat having been too much for her.” “I don’t know what your lordship expected,” said Mr. Benson, surlily, “but Lady Fitzhenry can scarcely look worse than she does.”