"Tyrrell," replied Morrison, "it is not for the purpose of parade that I ordered them; but I am sorry to be obliged to diminish your happiness at your acquittal, by telling you what I dared not tell you before, that Miss Effingham is very ill. Mrs. Effingham went down to her yesterday; but another express, which must have passed her on the road, arrived this morning, and we thus learn that she is seriously and dangerously indisposed. Knowing that you would wish to set off to see her immediately, I ordered the horses, and you can just see Lady Tyrrell as you pass by the manor. My dear father, let Sir Charles Tyrrell have some refreshment, and by that time the carriage will be round, and the people somewhat cleared away." Charles Tyrrell took some wine, but he could take nothing else, for the news he had heard had made his heart feel sick. As soon as the carriage was brought round he hastened to enter it, and proceeded at full speed to the manor-house, bearing with him, to Lady Tyrrell, the first tidings of his acquittal. Lady Tyrrell's nerves were weakened by all the grief and anxiety that she had undergone; and the first effect of the joy of seeing her son, was to make her faint, which added considerably to the time that he had to remain at the manor-house, although, indeed, when she recovered, she pressed him eagerly to go on to see Lucy. Her mind was, indeed, so much depressed by all the misfortunes and sorrows of her life, that she viewed everything in the darkest colours, and painted the state of Lucy Effingham as much more alarming than even the letter brought by the express justified. Still, however, she detained Charles with her, even while pressing him to go, and it was late in the day before he was once more permitted to enter the carriage to proceed upon his solitary journey. CHAPTER XXVII. It often happens to us in life, at least to those people, whose feelings are very deep and strong, that the consequence of some great and sudden joy, or some quick and scarcely expected deliverance from evil or danger, has any effect rather than that of exhilarating, or renewing expectations, or reviving hope. When Charles Tyrrell cast himself back in the carriage which was to bear him away to her he so dearly loved, it was with a feeling of deep depression. The news of Lucy's sickness, had come upon him suddenly, in the midst of his joy, like a funeral crossing some gay procession; and he felt as if it were too much to expect, or hope for, that he should be suddenly delivered from all the pangs and anxieties that had lately surrounded his path, without some terrible drawback, without some drop of intense bitter mingling in the sweetness of his cup. A feeling, which he could scarcely refrain from calling a presentiment, that his Lucy would be snatched from him; and that while he regained life, she who made life so dear, would be taken away.