“Do not suppose from this conversation, that any of those resolutions I have long since taken, are, or will be changed—they are the same; and shall continue inflexible.” “I understand you, my Lord,” replied Mr. Giffard, “your express orders, to me, as well as to every other person, remain just the same as formerly, never to mention this subject to you again.” “They do, Sir.” “My Lord, I always obeyed you, and hope I always shall.” “I hope so too,” he replied in a threatening accent—“Write to Sandford,” continued he, “to let him know my pleasure, and that is all you have to do.” The steward bowed and withdrew. But before his letter arrived to Sandford, Sandford arrived in town; and Mr. Giffard related, word for word, what had passed between him and his Lord. Upon every occasion, and upon every topic, except that of Lady Elmwood and her child, Sandford was just as free with Lord Elmwood as he had ever been; and as usual (after his interview with the steward) went into his apartment without any previous notice. Lord Elmwood shook him by the hand, as upon all other meetings; and yet, whether his fear suggested it or not, Sandford thought he appeared more cool and reserved with him than formerly. During the whole day, the slightest mention of Lady Elmwood, or of her child, was cautiously avoided—and not till the evening, (after Sandford had risen to retire, and had wished Lord Elmwood good night) did he dare to mention the subject. He then, after taking leave, and going to the door—turned back and said, “My Lord,”— It was easy to guess on what he was preparing to speak—his voice failed, the tears began to trickle down his cheeks, he took out his handkerchief, and could proceed no farther. “I thought,” said Lord Elmwood, angrily, “I thought I had given my orders upon the subject—did not my steward write them to you?” “He did, my Lord,” said Sandford, humbly, “but I was set out before they arrived.” “Has he not _told_ you my mind then?” cried he, more angrily still. “He has;” replied Sandford,—“But”—— “But what, Sir?” cried Lord Elmwood. “Your Lordship,” continued Sandford, “was mistaken in supposing that Lady Elmwood left a will, she left none.” “No will? no will at all?” returned he, surprised. “No, my Lord,” answered Sandford, “she wished every thing to be as you willed.” “She left me all the trouble, then, you mean?” “No great trouble, Sir; for there are but two persons whom she has left behind her, to hope for your protection.” “And who are those two?” cried he hastily. “One, my Lord, I need not name—the other is Miss Woodley.” There was a delicacy and humility in the manner in which Sandford delivered this reply, that Lord Elmwood could _not_ resent, and he only returned, “Miss Woodley—is she yet living?” “She is—I left her at the house I came from.” “Well then,” answered he, “you must see that my steward provides for those two persons. That care I leave to you—and should there be any complaints, on you they fall.”