To this proposition Fanny assented; and, while she remained behind in a state of anxious hope and expectation, Colin went onwards to Mrs. Clink's, for the purpose of obtaining the required information. A dreary pause of an hour or more, which to Fanny's imagination appeared half a day, followed Colin's departure. “Now,” thought she, after a little interval of time, “he has arrived there; now he is talking about it to his mother; and now, perhaps, she is telling him what she would never tell me, though I often asked her so particularly about it.” And then, again, as time wore away, and one five minutes after another were scored on the side of that great eternity the Past, she thought he must be coming back; she mistook the footsteps of every passer-by for his, and every distant external sound as the wished-for herald of his approach. At length, as she began to grow heart-sick with anxiety, he came. “Has she told you anything?” asked Fanny the moment she saw him. “Not much,” he replied, “and that of no great consequence.” “Ay, I feared it would be so! Then what is it, Colin?” “She knows nothing whatever of your father, that is certain. She never did know him, nor your mother either.” Fanny sighed, and then asked timidly, “Did she say anything about me, then?” “Why, yes,--she did; though it is not of very pleasant hearing; and besides, it is not of any consequence, particularly----” “But _do_ tell me,--you must tell me!” exclaimed Fanny. “I do not care what it is; it cannot hurt me now.” “Well, then,” returned Colin, “the truth is this--” Fanny sat down in a chair; and as she gazed intently on Colin's features while he spoke, her bosom heaved and fell as though some sentence of punishment was being passed upon her.