“Indeed he is,” answered Emmeline; “and indeed I can trust to him. He would not have written for me had he not been sure it was _his_ wish. Dearest father, I must, I will set off directly; and do not let me go with the pain of your displeasure.” Mrs. Benson joined her arguments to Emmeline’s entreaties, bringing in, with excusable artifice, something about the duty and devotion of a wife, till, at last, Mr. Benson seemed somewhat moved; and a glance which he caught of Emmeline’s face, crimsoned with agitation and animated with painful anxiety, completely overcoming his intended firmness, he opened his arms to his trembling daughter: “Well, well, you women always get the better, always make fools of us men. The truth is, I am heartily tired of your dismal face, Emmy, and of all this weeping and wailing—that is the truth of it; so e’en take your own way, so that we may be all happy again. But I can tell you, positively you shall not go alone, child; at all events, I _will_ go with you to Dover.” “But directly, dear father—no delay—the happiness or misery of my life may depend on an hour—now, this very night, let me set off.” “Oh! as for that, I am always for dispatch, you know. If a thing is to be done, let it be done directly, that is my saying. There is no fear of John Benson dawdling.” And the good-hearted old man, rubbing his hands, hurried out of the room to give the necessary orders. In an instant, all was bustle in the house. Mr. Benson himself paced away to the stables to hasten the harnessing of the horses; and Emmeline, a few minutes before inanimate and almost lifeless, now, with a flushed cheek, restlessly paced the hall and drawing-room, impatient at every moment’s delay. She hardly knew whether she had most cause for dread or hope from the contents of Mr. Pelham’s letter. Fitzhenry was ill—plainly very ill; and, as her father said, it was not even hinted that it was by his desire she had been summoned; but still she thought she could trust to that kind, considerate friend; and the idea, the delightful idea, that in a few days she would again behold Fitzhenry, got the better of every other thought. While Emmeline was thus counting every second till the carriage came to the door, Mrs. Benson busied herself in those necessary preparations for the journey, which her pre-occupied daughter never thought of. At last, by midnight, all was ready; and followed by the blessings and good wishes of her mother, Emmeline set off with her father for Dover. “I shall come back to you, perhaps, the happiest of human beings,” said she, as she returned Mrs. Benson’s fond embrace—“perhaps——” She had not courage to finish the sentence. “Foolish girl!” said her father, as he helped her into the carriage; “no more whimpering. Now shut the door; bid the man drive on: and you, Mrs. Benson, my good woman, do you go away to your bed. Pretty wild doings these! This comes of connecting oneself with quality!”