"Do so without fail. Do not lose your passage. I little knew that personal feeling would add to my eagerness to learn the truth. Do not stay for my sake. Come to-night and learn how false and wild my father's words were; and then hasten to depart--to see Osborne--to learn all! Farewell till this evening." She hurried away to Falkner's room, while stunned--doubting--forced, by Elizabeth, to entertain doubts, and yet convinced in his heart; for the name of Rupert brought, conviction home--Neville left the house. He had entered it fostering the sweetest dreams of happiness, and now he dared not look at the reverse. Elizabeth, filled with the most poignant inquietude with regard to his health, hastened to the sitting-room which Falkner usually occupied. She found him seated at the table, with a small box--a box she well remembered--open before him. He was looking over the papers it contained. His manner was perfectly composed--the natural hue had returned to his cheeks--his look was sedate. He was, indeed, very different from the man who, thirteen years before, had landed in Cornwall. He was then in the prime of life; and if passion defaced his features, still youth, and health, and power animated his frame. Long years of grief and remorse, with sickness superadded, had made him old before his time. The hair had receded from the temples, and what remained was sprinkled with gray; his figure was bent and attenuated; his face careworn; yet, at this moment, he had regained a portion of his former self. There was an expression on his face of satisfaction, almost of triumph; and, when he saw Elizabeth, the old, sweet smile she knew and loved so well lighted up his countenance. He held out his hand; she took it. There was no fever in the palm--his pulse was equable; and when he spoke his voice did not falter. He said, "This blow has fallen heavily on you, my dear girl; yet all will be well soon, I trust. Meanwhile it cannot be quite unexpected." Elizabeth looked her astonishment--he continued:--"You have long known that a heavy crime weighs on my conscience. It renders me unfit to live; yet, I have not been permitted to die. I sought death--but we are seldom allowed to direct our fate. I do not, however, complain; I am well content with the end which will speedily terminate all." "My dearest father," cried Elizabeth, "I cannot guess what you mean. I thought--but no--you are not ill--you are not--" "Not mad, dearest? was that your thought? It is a madness, at least, that has lasted long--since first you stayed my hand on your mother's grave. You are too good, too affectionate to regret having saved me, even when you hear who I am. You are too resigned to Providence not to acquiesce in the way chosen to bring all things to their destined end."