"Shall I, then, go to her? You know how I shrink from strangers; how I fear curiosity, doubts, and questions; how [and Lady Vargrave's voice faltered]--how unfitted I am for--for--" she stopped short, and a faint blush overspread her cheeks. The curate understood her, and was moved. "Dear friend," said he, "will you intrust this charge to myself? You know how Evelyn is endeared to me by certain recollections! Perhaps, better than you, I may be enabled silently to examine if this man be worthy of her, and one who could secure her happiness; perhaps, better than you I may ascertain the exact nature of her own feelings towards him; perhaps, too, better than you I may effect an understanding with Lord Vargrave." "You are always my kindest friend," said the lady, with emotion; "how much I already owe you! what hopes beyond the grave! what--" "Hush!" interrupted the curate, gently; "your own good heart and pure intentions have worked out your own atonement--may I hope also your own content? Let us return to our Evelyn. Poor child! how unlike this despondent letter to her gay light spirits when with us! We acted for the best; yet perhaps we did wrong to yield her up to strangers. And this Maltravers--with her enthusiasm and quick susceptibilities to genius, she was half prepared to imagine him all she depicts him to be. He must have a spell in his works that I have not discovered, for at times it seems to operate even on you." "Because," said Lady Vargrave, "they remind me of _his_ conversation, _his_ habits of thought. If like _him_ in other things, Evelyn may indeed be happy!" "And if," said the curate, curiously,--"if now that you are free, you were ever to meet with him again, and his memory had been as faithful as yours; and if he offered the sole atonement in his power, for all that his early error cost you; if such a chance should happen in the vicissitudes of life, you would--" The curate stopped short; for he was struck by the exceeding paleness of his friend's cheek, and the tremor of her delicate frame. "If that were to happen," said she, in a very low voice; "if we were to meet again, and if he were--as you and Mrs. Leslie seem to think--poor, and, like myself, humbly born, if my fortune could assist him, if my love could still--changed, altered as I am--ah! do not talk of it--I cannot bear the thought of happiness! And yet, if before I die I _could_ but see him again!" She clasped her hands fervently as she spoke, and the blush that overspread her face threw over it so much of bloom and freshness, that even Evelyn, at that moment, would scarcely have seemed more young. "Enough!" she added, after a little while, as the glow died away. "It is but a foolish hope; all earthly love is buried; and my heart is there!"--she pointed to the heavens, and both were silent. CHAPTER II. QUIBUS otio vel magnifice, vel molliter, vivere copia era incerta pro certis malebant.*--SALLUST.