Mr. Benson was here interrupted in his intended story by a loud ringing at the door-bell; he started up and hurried out of the room. No one spoke, but all had the same idea—all fancied it could only be Lord Fitzhenry. Mrs. Benson laid down her work, and moved towards the hall. Emmeline alone sat immoveable. Her father was at the house-door, and opened it before any servant could reach it. She heard the trampling of a horse on the threshold—heard a voice in brief communication with him. A footstep approached the room—she fixed her eyes wildly on the door, scarcely able to breathe. But again she had to endure the torture of disappointment—Mr. Benson entered alone, with a letter in his hand, brought, he said, by a man on horseback, who had orders to deliver it with all speed. The letter was for Emmeline, and the direction was in Pelham’s hand-writing. She hastily broke the seal, and while every pulse in her heart and in her head throbbed, she read these words: “You would have heard from us before, but Fitzhenry has been ill—indeed is so still. We are here at Paris delayed on our journey. If you could, (I need hardly add, if you would,) I should wish you to set off immediately, on receiving this, to join us. Trust me, I would urge nothing that I was not certain was for your and your husband’s _mutual_ good. At Dover you will find a vessel ready to bring you over, and my own courier to accompany you, who will prevent all delays and difficulties. Lose no time. Fitzhenry has had a most violent and alarming fever; but to-day, I think, there is some decided amendment—the medical people now are sanguine. God bless you. “G. PELHAM.” Emmeline held out the letter to her father, while her full heart relieved itself by tears; when he had read it, without looking at her, he said: “Well, how do you mean to act?” “How!” said Emmeline, breathless with agitation, “why set off directly.” “I don’t know that I shall agree to that,” answered Mr. Benson, with the same forced _sang froid_. “In this business you are not fit to judge for yourself, and I must consider for you.” Emmeline grasped her father’s arm, endeavouring to catch his averted eyes: “Dear father! I think you have never yet had reason to doubt my obedience to your will, so you must now forgive me for saying, that no power on earth shall prevent my going to my husband. My only chance for happiness in this world, duty, every thing, in short, calls me to him. Do not, I entreat, forbid me, for I could not obey you.” “But,” rejoined Mr. Benson, rather impatiently, “it is not your husband that sends for you. Mr. Pelham does not even say that he knows of his writing to you; and I am sure he would make the very best of the matter, for he seems to be a kind, friendly sort of man.”