Sandford, though experienced in the cruelty and ingratitude of the world, yet could not without difficulty brook this severity, this contumely, from a man, for whose welfare, ever since his infancy, he had laboured; and whose happiness was more dear to him, in spite of all his faults, than that of any other person. Even Lady Matilda was not so dear to Sandford as her father—and he loved her more that she was Lord Elmwood’s child, than for any other cause. Sometimes the old Priest, incensed beyond bearing, was on the point of saying to his patron, “How, in my age, dare you thus treat the man, whom in his youth you respected and revered?” Sometimes instead of anger, he felt the tear, he was ashamed to own, steal to his eye, and even fall down his cheek. Sometimes he left the room half determined to leave the house—but these were all half determinations; for he knew him with whom he had to deal too well, not to know that he might be provoked into yet greater anger; and that should he once rashly quit his house, the doors most probably would be shut against him for ever. In this humiliating state (for even many of the domestics could not but observe their Lord’s displeasure) Sandford passed three days, and was beginning the fourth, when sitting with Lord Elmwood and Rushbrook just after breakfast, a servant entered, saying, as he opened the door, to somebody who followed, “You must wait till you have my Lord’s permission.” This attracted their eyes to the door, and a man meanly dressed, walked in, following close to the servant. The latter turned, and seemed again to desire the person to retire, but in vain; he rushed forward regardless of his opposer, and in great agitation, cried, “My Lord, if you please, I have business with you, provided you will chuse to be alone.” Lord Elmwood, struck with the intruder’s earnestness, bade the servant leave the room; and then said to the stranger, “You may speak before these gentlemen.” The man instantly turned pale, and trembled—then, to prolong the time before he spoke, went to the door to see if it was shut—returned—yet still trembling, seemed unwilling to say his errand. “What have you done,” cried Lord Elmwood, “that you are in this terror? What have you done, man?” “Nothing, my Lord,” replied he, “but I am afraid I am going to offend you.” “Well, no matter;” (he answered carelessly) “only go on, and let me know your business.” The man’s distress increased—and he cried in a voice of grief and affright—“Your child, my Lord!”—— Rushbrook and Sandford started; and looking at Lord Elmwood, saw him turn white as death. In a tremulous voice he instantly cried, “What of her?” and rose from his seat. Encouraged by the question, and the agitation of him who asked it, the poor man gave way to his feelings, and answered with every sign of sorrow,