“‘I am not stern—I am not angry, Emily. Have I not ever been kind to you? Why, then, this unusual mode of approaching and addressing me? Were I a mere tyrant, you could not show better than your present manner does, that I am such.’ “His words were kind, but his eye and his manner were blighting. His daughter’s knees trembled under her. She glanced hastily at the table in quest of the little book which her hands had that morning placed there; and not seeing it, her heart sunk. “‘Be seated, Emily,’ said her father, moving towards her a chair, and gently placing her in it immediately opposite to him, at only a very little distance. She thought that she had never till that moment seen her father’s face, or at least had never before noticed its true character. How cold and severe was the look of the penetrating eyes now fixed on her—how rigid were the features—how commanding the expression which they wore—how visibly clouded with sorrow, and marked with the traces of suffering! “‘And what, Emily, would you say?’ he inquired, calmly. “‘Dearest papa, I would say, if I dared, what my sister said to you so short a time ago—_Forgive!_’ “‘Whom?’ inquired the Earl, striving to repress all appearance of emotion. “‘Him who is to die on Monday next—Adam Ayliffe. Oh, my dearest papa, do not—oh, do not look so fearfully at me!’ “‘You mean, Emily, _the murderer of your brother_!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Am I right? Do I understand you?’ inquired her father, gloomily. “‘But I think that he is not—I do believe that he is not.’ “‘But how can it concern _you_, Emily, to think or believe on the subject? Good child, meddle not with what you understand not. Who has put you upon this, Emily?’ “‘My own heart, papa.’ “‘Bah, girl!’ cried the Earl, unable to restrain his angry impulse, ‘do not patter nonsense with your father on a subject like this. You have been trained and tutored to torment me on this matter!’ “‘Papa!—my papa!—I trained! I tutored! By whom? Am I of your blood?’ said Lady Emily, proudly and indignantly. “‘You had better return, my child, to your occupations’—— “‘My occupation, dearest papa, is here, and, so long as you may suffer me to be with you, to say few, but few words to you. It is hard if I cannot, I who never knowingly grieved you in my life. Remember that I am now your only child. Yet I fear you love me not as you ought to love an only child, or you could not speak to me as you have just spoken.’ She paused for moment, and added, as if with a sudden desperate impulse—‘My poor sister and I do implore you to give this wretch a chance of life, for we both believe that he is innocent!’