As I was pouring out some tea, my hand trembled--Mrs. Middleton observed it, and said with a smile, "The effects of dissipation, Ellen. We really must pull up, or we shall have you regularly _nervous_." "How did you like your ball last night, Ellen?" asked Mr. Middleton. "Not at all," I answered, and felt my cheeks grow crimson. "Edward," said Mrs. Middleton, "you renewed your acquaintance with Mrs. Ernsley last night; did you not?" "Yes, I had not seen her since my return." As he said these insignificant words, he sighed deeply. I could not help instantly connecting in my mind this sigh of his with something which I fancied Mrs. Ernsley might have told him of, that had fallen under her observation at Brandon; and I said in a tone of irritation, "I know nobody whom I would not talk to rather than to Mrs. Ernsley. She invariably takes a wrong view of people and of things." Edward looked at me steadily, and again I felt my cheeks flushing; and, in my embarrassment, I exclaimed that the fire was very hot, and got up to place a screen before it. He helped me to carry it, and said in a whisper as he did so, "Do not be ashamed of blushing; there is _truth_ in _that_ at least." After this, I did not open my lips again while breakfast lasted. When my aunt had left the room, and my uncle was completely engrossed by the newspaper, Edward walked to the chimney, leant his back against it, and, taking hold of my gloves, which were lying on the slab, he twisted them in his hand; and then, as by a sudden effort, said, "Ellen, come here." I obeyed, and in a voice which I felt was humble, though it tried to be careless and gay, I said--"Give me back my gloves, Edward; you are spoiling them." He detained them an instant, as I took hold of them, and said half sternly, half tenderly--"Have you nothing to say to me? I thought last night--" "Oh, last night, I was quite beside myself," I interrupted, with a nervous attempt at a laugh. "I talked nonsense to everybody, and you must not call me to account for what I may have said or done." "I am afraid not," he answered coldly; and, taking up a newspaper, he sat down again at the table. I remained standing where he had left me, with my eyes fixed upon him, vainly endeavouring to find out some means of appeasing him. Nothing but openness and frankness could reinstate me in his favour: and how could I be open and frank? What _could_ I tell him that would justify my intimacy with Henry? or account for the agitation which his words had caused me? Nothing; nothing short of the _truth;_ and _that_--oh! how wearied I was with that eternal combat with myself--with that everlasting question, so often asked, and so often answered by my own mind. I absolutely shrunk from discussing it with myself again.